Invisible: Foxface's Tale
by SealingWax
Summary: When the annual reaping tosses her into the Hunger Games, Fleta must depend on the one thing she hates most about herself to survive.  The Hunger Games from Foxface's POV. Rated T for violence and mild language. My first fic, so please R&R!
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is my first fanfic, so reviews are very much appreciated. Thanks!  
**

Invisibility has always been an unintentional talent of mine.

Back in District 5, I wasn't the type that was noticed. My grades weren't exceptionally high, but not low enough to be considered a problem. Quite a few of my classmates forgot my name (it's Fleta, in case you care), and those that did know it didn't know _me_. I suppose that, since I didn't talk a lot, they didn't think I was worth listening to.

I was unremarkable outside of school, as well. My younger brother needed lots of attention, and my older sister demanded it. Some middle children act out to get noticed, but I fell into my role without protest. On the weekdays I did my homework; weekends, I spent mostly at the printing press. I did my chores. I ate my vegetables. I brushed my teeth. Yes, I did everything I was supposed to do, but the world didn't think much of me.

Everything changed, though, at this year's reaping.

See, when your name is chosen from thousands, people don't easily forget it.

That day, I watched from the crowd, unaware of the turn my life was about to take, as Isabelline Bycaster reached into a glass sphere and drew out my destiny.


	2. Chapter 1: Morning

I wake up, and for a blissful moment, I forget.

Then I am nearly crushed by the fear and worry that come crashing down around me. Today is reaping day.

I struggle to sit up, shading my eyes against the bright sunlight that floods through my windows. It looks to be about noon. It's the one weekday of the year we're allowed to sleep in. It's the one weekday of the year I forgot to draw my curtains. Figures.

I get out of bed and walk into the kitchen. My mother is already up and cooking lunch. Why am I not surprised? "Thank you," I say as I grab a chicken sandwich, which I devour on my way to the bathroom. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into my reaping dress: a golden brown number I've never liked much, but my mother insists brings out my eyes.

I glance in the mirror. I don't look much like my siblings. Neither of them are true redheads like me. I don't know how my mother's fair-hair genes skipped me, but I'm glad they did; my straight, red hair has always been my favorite feature. I run a comb through it now.

Someone pounds on the door.

"Get out of the bathroom already!" says Farren.

"Good morning to you, too," I reply.

"Come on, you've been in there for-eh-vurrr," my older sister groans.

I finish with my hair, knowing full well what's going to happen next. Three. Two. One.

"MAAAA, Fleta's being a hog!"

"Fleta–" my mother begins.

"I'm out, I'm out!" I say, throwing open the bathroom door and holding up my hands in surrender. I scowl at Farren as I pass by. Just because it's her last year in the reaping doesn't mean she gets to stomp around like a spoiled baby. Banging on the door. Calling me a hog. She sneers back at me, and the door slams shut behind her. See, this is exactly what I mean. She's a six-year-old in a teenager's body.

Speaking of six-year-olds, my little brother comes running out of his room, his auburn curls mussed. He must have been jolted awake by the sound of the slamming door. Oops. I kneel to meet him. He runs into my arms and says anxiously into my shoulder, "Fleta! Fleta, I think a comet hit our house!"

I hide a smile. Coy has been obsessed with the sky ever since he was first taken outside. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating, but he really has loved it for years.

"Everything's all right, Coy," I tell him, hugging him tighter. "Everybody's fine."

At least Coy is too young for the reaping right now. Him, my parents don't have to worry about. It's my sister and me that are their concern today.

We aren't starving like some of the families in District 5, but we're still poor enough that we have to sign up for tesserae. Each kid has to have their name in the reaping once every year, but every time you voluntarily enter your name again, you get a tessera: a year's supply of grain and oil for one person. I sign up for two every year, for my parents. Farren signs up for three, for us kids. And it adds up. This year, at age fifteen, my name will be in the reaping twelve times. Farren, at age eighteen, will have her name in twenty-eight times. It's horrifying.

But there's one depressing thing to comfort me: with all the thousands of kids in District 5, especially the extremely unlucky ones who have to sign up for five or more tesserae a year, the odds are, as they say, ever in our favor.

At thirty minutes to one, my father has finally woken up and gotten both Coy and himself dressed for the day. Coy is clothed in a white dress shirt, black dress pants, shiny black shoes, and a dark green tie: my father's outfit in miniature. Coy, being too young to understand the reaping, jumps up and down with excitement. I envy him. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss.

At fifteen minutes to one, my mother finishes dressing. She has her golden hair pinned up atop her head, and has chosen to wear a dark green dress and matching pumps.

At ten minutes to one, I slip on my too-tight, golden brown flats.

At five minutes to one, Farren bursts theatrically from the bathroom. She's wearing a white dress, black flats, and a gold bangle, and her strawberry blonde hair is in a braid that hangs down her back. That's it? That took a half-hour? I sigh and shake my head at my silly sister, but I'm smiling.

At one o'clock, my family, along with the rest of District 5, walks to the square. When we get there, Farren and I hug, just in case, and then walk to our respective, roped-off age groups to await the ceremony. Mom goes to stand with my sister, while Dad and Coy remain with me. They're just outside the rope, close enough to touch.

Coy, who is on my father's shoulders, looks down at me with enormous, dark brown eyes, and I smile reassuringly up at him, saying the same thing I've been saying all along. _Everything will be okay._ He grins in return, and we both direct our attention to the stage. On it are a podium, four chairs, and two glass balls, one for each gender. In the first chair sits Mayor Bluefield; in the second, the District Five escort, a pale woman with blue hair, purple eyes and a big smile. The third chair belongs to a woman I recognize from past Games, but don't remember the name of. And the fourth chair supports a man who looks old before his time. He returns our stares with haunted eyes, not seeming to really see us.

The clock strikes two and Mayor Bluefield starts the ceremony, going through the history of Panem, reminding us all of the Dark Days and the consequences that the rebels suffered. As if the Hunger Games themselves weren't reminder enough. He then reads the short list of victors. We've had five, which fits. Two are dead and two have suffered mental breakdowns. Only one is getting by all right. I'd wager that the last victor, the one who has managed to retain her sanity, is sitting in the third chair right now, and one of the crazies is in the fourth.

"Please allow me to introduce Onsona Kellor and Codon Filfri, the District Five mentors," says Mayor Bluefield.

The crowd applauds. Onsona smiles and waves, but Codon doesn't. He just sits there gazing back at us. I pity the boy whose name is chosen from that glass ball today. Not only will he be thrust into the Games, but he will have this wreck of a mentor to be responsible for keeping him alive.

"Now Isabelline Bycaster, the District Five escort, will select the tributes," says Mayor Bluefield. Isabelline stands up and– there's really no other word for it– prances over to the podium, where she announces in that idiotic-sounding Capitol accent, "Happy Hunger Games, everyone! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

They won't be. Not for two of us.

Isabelline looks around, beaming, and goes into this unnecessary, fluffed up speech about how beautiful our district is. We've put a considerable amount of effort into this square, but she doesn't have to prattle on for a full three minutes about it, does she?

Finally she trills, "Ladies first!" and prances across the stage. My heart starts to race, and suddenly I'm wishing her speech wasn't over. But, of course, it is.

She reaches the glass ball with the girls' names. I'm in there twelve times. Farren is in there twenty-eight times.

It's absolutely silent as Isabelline crosses back to the podium. My stomach is twisting inside of me. I'm terrified for myself, obviously, but somehow, the fear that it will be Farren is worse. After all, the chances of her being reaped are more than twice mine. Isabelline is two steps away from the podium, and the thought that my older sister's name could be on that slip is suddenly a very real possibility, and it strikes me without warning. I cannot watch my sister, my stupid, dramatic, silly, wonderful sister, die on television, not when it is her last year for eligibility and she's gotten this far without incident.

Isabelline has reached the podium, and is unfolding the slip.

_That could be my sister,_ I think. _That could be me._

And it's crazy, but for one fleeting second, I tell whatever god is listening that if one of us has to be reaped, it shouldn't be Farren.

Everyone in the square watches Isabelline as she holds up the paper and reads the name aloud.

"Fleta Riverwood."


	3. Chapter 2: Where the Cowards Live

**A/N: Well, she got her wish.**

_What?_

_ What did she say?_

My brain is not working.

_Did she just say my name?_

_Yes. Yes, she did._

_ I am going into the Hunger Games._

_ Oh, God._

I regain my senses and look around. Everyone who knows who I am is turning to stare at me, and everyone who doesn't know me is following everyone else. Against my better judgment, I look to my left, at my father. The shock, grief and devastation in his expression make me feel like I'm falling. But even worse than the look in my father's eyes is the single word my baffled little brother speaks.

"Fleta?"

My name echoes, the only sound in the square. No, I'm definitely not invisible anymore.

"Fleta, that lady just called you." Coy points his little finger at Isabelline.

I find my voice.

"I know, Coy. I'm going."

I resist the urge to throw my arms around my father, to reach up and squeeze Coy's hand, because in the Games, emotion is perceived as weakness, and I can't afford to cry. I turn to face the stage, and step forward. The kids part like the Red Sea. I head for the front of the square, feet hurting the whole way, and I think wryly that had I known I would be walking this far today, I would have worn shoes that actually fit.

Reaching the stage and ascending the stairs, I take my place next to the glass ball from which my fate was pulled, and glare at Isabelline, daring her to make one comment about my clueless little brother. She doesn't.

"Are there any volunteers?" asks Isabelline.

I look out over District 5. My home.

And there is silence.

Angry tears prick my eyes, but I don't let them fall. Instead, I give the crowd a curt nod and step backward, my hands balling into fists, shaking with the emotions I refuse to show on my face.

"And now our boy!" says Isabelline cheerily, and the hatred that's coursing through me– hatred for the Capitol who make these Games possible and the rebels who brought this punishment down upon us in the first place and the people of 5 who will not save me now– focuses on this idiotic bimbo who is trying to make this nightmare into something happy, something to be celebrated and desired.

I want to strangle her.

She dips her hand into the glass ball and produces a second slip of paper, which she brings back to the podium and crisply reads aloud.

"Ryder Anonian."

Ryder Anonian? I know Ryder Anonian. He's my classmate. We barely talk, because I'm kind of quiet and he's kind of a pain. I still wouldn't wish this fate on him, though.

I wouldn't wish this fate on anybody.

Ryder doesn't move for a few seconds. He blinks a few times and runs a hand through his dark hair before making his way through the throng to join me onstage. I watch him approach. He's pale, but doesn't look as nearly as petrified as I feel. He stands next to the boys' glass ball.

"Are there any volunteers?" repeats Isabelline.

Of course not. As I am coming to realize, District 5 is where the cowards live.

Mayor Bluefield steps forward to read the Treaty of Treason. At once, I tune out and use the time to scan the faces of the people standing below. I want the girls who didn't volunteer– especially the ones I thought were my friends– to remember this moment forever. When they watch me die on television, I want them to remember how I stood alone onstage. I want them to feel the full impact of their inaction.

But instead, my eyes find my mother and sister in the front row, looking up at me with tears pouring down their faces. Quickly I avert my gaze, knowing that if I watch them any longer I will break down myself.

The mayor finishes reading the Treaty, and instructs Ryder and me to shake hands. We do, and as I meet his gaze, Ryder gives a tiny nod. I have no idea what that means. In any case, I am the one to let go.


	4. Chapter 3: Perfectly

**A/N: I don't own the Hunger Games. Thanks for reading and reviewing!  
**

Immediately following the anthem, Ryder and I are led into the Justice Building by a band of Peacekeepers. Ryder is taken into a separate area, and I am left alone in a room with a plush sofa, a few armchairs and a deep carpet. I have an hour for anyone who wants to say goodbye to me to come see me, and then I'll be ushered onto the train and on my way to the Capitol. I take off my shoes (ahhh, sweet relief) and curl up on the couch.

When my family comes, they enter in single file, one after the other: first my father, then my mother, and Farren behind her, and finally Coy. They're all weeping, except Coy, who just looks bewildered. I scoop him up onto my lap, wrap my arms around him, and bury my face in his shirt. It smells like soap.

"What's going on?" asks Coy.

No one else can answer. So I tell my little brother, trying to keep my voice from trembling, that I'm going away for a while.

"Where?"

"To the Capitol. I'm going to play a game there."

"What kind of game?"

"You'll… see on TV," I say haltingly. Then I turn him so that he faces me. "But when you watch me play, you might not like it. So at the bad parts, I want you to close your eyes, okay?"

"Okay," says Coy.

"What are you going to do at the bad parts?"

"Close my eyes."

"Good boy." I kiss his forehead.

We sit in silence for a minute or two. My parents and sister are still sniffling in the armchairs, trying to pull themselves together.

"Fleta?"

"Yes, Coy?"

"When are you gonna come back?"

There's a pang in my heart. "Don't know," I whisper.

His eyes are filling with tears. "Are you _ever_ gonna come back?"

I hold him as closely and as tightly as I can. "Don't know," I whisper.

I feel Coy's tears drip onto my dress.

"But Fleta, I'm gonna miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, little brother."

Coy crawls off my lap and curls up on the one end of the couch. He puts his thumb in his mouth, something he's too old for and hasn't done in years.

Farren has finally collected herself enough to sit next to me. She pulls me into a hug, and then holds me out at arm's length. "You're coming home," she says, and it's not a question.

"I'll try," I say, but apparently that was the wrong answer, because she gives me a little shake.

"You're coming _home_," she repeats fiercely. I nod vigorously, as if agreeing with Farren will keep me from weeping. As if it will keep me alive. Tears come to my sister's eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't volunteer," she says, her voice trembling. "I'm not brave like you. Please forgive me."

I'd like to believe that if Farren was the one on that stage, I would have taken her place. I did have that thought right before the actual reaping: that if one of us goes, it should be me. But I just don't know if I would have raised my hand. I guess no one knows until it really happens to them. And that's… forgivable.

"It's okay," I tell her. "It's all right. Apology accepted."

My sister embraces me again, and I breathe in her flowery scent and try not to cry.

My mother is next, and she hugs me as if she'll never let me go. And I have no problem with that. I don't _want_ to go! I want to stay here in District 5 more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. But I have no choice. Tears threatening to spill over, I kiss my mother's cheek one last time.

Then my father grips my shoulders and says, "This isn't goodbye, Fleta. You are quick and clever and beautiful, and you can make it. You can beat them all. You can come home." I don't quite believe him, but I cling to him anyway, and that's when I break down. I forget about how I will have to hide my tears for the cameras; my mind is dominated by thoughts of my family, the four people I love most in this world, and how I will never see them again. There is a hole opening wide in my chest.

We all cry for a while. After ten minutes or so, I wipe my eyes, realizing we must not have much time left. What will my parting words be? Then I sit up, knowing what I need to say.

"No matter what you see on that screen," I say, "Remember that I'm still me, and whatever happens, I'm doing my best to come home to you. And if I don't…" Hit by that very real possibility, I struggle to breathe for a second, but recover and say, "Then remember that I loved you, even in that arena. _Especially_ in that arena. And I never forgot you." Speaking of myself in the past tense scares me. It frightens them, too; I can see it in their eyes. "Okay?" I ask. My family nods, blinking back tears, except for Coy, who hugs me around the middle and won't let go. My parents and sister join him, and soon, the five of us are locked in an embrace that I never want to end.

But it has to end.

Far too soon, the Peacekeepers are there to tell us our time is up. When we don't immediately separate, the Peacekeepers grab my parents and siblings by the arms and start dragging them away. And I know I'm not supposed to, but I can't help it; I'm fighting to stay with my family, knocking grown men aside with a strength I never knew I had.

I reach for Coy, and my fingers graze his. He looks up at me with alarmed brown eyes that ask, why aren't you coming with us, Fleta? After all this time, he still doesn't get it, and I reach for him, hoping to communicate one last goodbye in the way I grasp his fingers. I have almost caught hold of his hand when a Peacekeeper wrenches me away from my little brother, and then Coy is gone. They are all gone. The door slams behind them. I lie on the couch and try to smother myself with a pillow.

It doesn't work.

Only one of my so-called friends comes to say goodbye: Jyoti, who comes in and sits next to me and apologizes for not volunteering, and says all my other friends are sorry, too, but they couldn't find the strength to come say goodbye, and that they all wish me the best of luck in the arena, and will be supporting me every step of the way. Jyoti ends this clichéd little speech by throwing her arms around me, and I pat her hand stiffly. Tears stream down her face as she asks, "Can you ever forgive me?"

The idea of forgiving Jyoti is somewhat more difficult than forgiving my sister. But then I think about what it will be like for Jyoti if I don't, and she watches me die later. It'll probably haunt her for the rest of her life. And even now, I can't do that to my friend.

So to save Jyoti, even though she neglected to save me, I say, "Yes. I do."

She hugs me with finality and whispers her thank you.

Then she's gone, too.

My friend, my brother, my sister, my father, my mother. All gone. I'm utterly alone.

I slump back on the sofa, wondering if the despair I feel will ever fade. I bury my face in my hands.

Only then do I notice that I'm holding something in my hand: a tiny envelope, with my name hastily scrawled on it in my mother's writing. I open it to find a thin circlet of silver.

When a baby girl is born in District 5, her mother purchases a bracelet for her to wear when she gets older. I learned about my birthday bracelet at age five, and wanted it immediately. But my mother said no, because traditionally, a girl receives her birthday bracelet on her sixteenth birthday. Farren was given her birthday bracelet two years ago, and I've been really looking forward to getting mine ever since.

But now, realizing that I might never reach sixteen, my mother has decided to give me my birthday bracelet as my district token.

It's the most bittersweet present imaginable, but I slip the bracelet onto my wrist.

And it fits perfectly.


	5. Chapter 4: Capitol Fluff

**A/N: I hope the length of this chapter makes up for the length of the wait!  
**

The Peacekeepers escort me out of the Justice Building and into a waiting car. After a minute, Ryder joins me. He lifts his chin at me, possibly an attempt to acknowledge my presence. I nod in reply.

Soon, we're on our way to the train station. I dare to glance at Ryder, searching his face for signs of tears, and am astounded when I find none. Before I can say anything about it, though, Ryder glowers at me with dark, accusing eyes, and I can't help but flinch and avert my gaze. After a minute or two of uneasy silence, I peer out of the window, just to have something to look at besides my district partner. I regret this almost instantly. Reporters and cameramen line the streets, and when they see my face, they zoom in, eager to get a shot of one of this year's District 5 tributes.

I'm about to scowl at them when I realize this will be on TV later. I should probably wave or something. But after all that has happened today, I can't find the will to do so. The best I can do is smile and try to be discreet about leaning away from the window.

We arrive at the train station, and as Ryder and I step out of the car, we are immediately flanked by Peacekeepers. Just in time, too, because as the doors slam behind us, the crowd surges in. NH B6The Peacekeepers that encircle me march forward, forcing me to move along with them. Not far away, another group of Peacekeepers surrounds Ryder, but I catch an occasional glimpse of him. His face is stone and his jaw is set. The cameras flash and whir, trained on us both, and now I understand why he's like this.

Already, the Games have begun.

There are a lot of fantastic things about the train: the incredible speed at which it travels; the scenery that races by the windows in a blur; the fact that there are no cameras here; but most of all, the private chamber I'm asked to wait in. It has a luxurious bathroom, a closet with a dizzying array of clothes, and a bed that's so comfortable that just sitting on it makes me drowsy. And it's all for me!

It's almost enough to make me forget where we're going.

Alone in my room, I kick off those dreadful shoes and pull my golden-brown dress up over my head. I then select a white blouse and black shorts from the closet, and, newly dressed, stretch out on the bed. Though I'm not very tall to begin with, the enormous bed makes me feel even smaller, like a young child. And suddenly, I want my mom.

I crawl across the bed to place my birthday bracelet on the nightstand. I collapse back onto one of the pillows and stare up at the ceiling. Not just my mom; I want my whole family, actually. I crack a smile, thinking of how, if they were here, my parents would walk around admiring everything, and how Farren would dive into the closet and never resurface, and how Coy would press his little nose up against the window in delight and constantly exclaim how fast we were going.

God, I already miss them so much.

But I blink back the tears, determined to be strong. Weaklings do not win the Hunger Games.

To distract myself, I rummage through the various drawers, looking for something to read. In my district, vast majority of us are bibliophiles, which isn't much of a mystery, considering we're the printing press of Panem. We love words; in fact, letters are the main form of communication in District 5. And back home, I loved to play messenger. People used to actually seek me out after school, asking me to deliver their notes, because they knew I was fast.

Reading and running. Running and reading. The two things I enjoy the most.

Two things I'll never enjoy again.

If you think about it, the only chance to really sprint from here on out will be in the arena, and even then, I'll literally be running for my life. And I doubt the citizens of the Capitol spend much time with their surgically altered noses in books.

I'm down to the last drawer in this chamber. I open it, not really expecting anything to be inside, which is why I'm surprised to find a pamphlet on the history of the Hunger Games waiting there for me. It's stuck in the drawer, so I carefully maneuver it out and hold it up to the light. It's creased, and torn at one corner, but who cares?

For the remainder of the hour, I lie on my stomach on the bed and read. The first paragraph is full of garbage about how the Capitol is so terrific and powerful, and how the rebels' senseless attempt to rise up against their great leaders was the reason why the glorious tradition that is the Hunger Games began.

The next part tells me how every previous victor won their Games. This is extremely useful information; no wonder this pamphlet was hidden away. I devour every word. I'm particularly interested in Kiece Conan, the girl from 6 who won the twenty-fourth Games. According to the pamphlet, she remained in the shadows throughout the Games, coming out of hiding only to team up with the strongest boy in the field. Kiece emerged triumphant from the arena with only two kills. First was the death of the second-to-last tribute, necessary to any victor. But the second death astounds me: that of her ally, whom she stabbed in his sleep. I shudder. I don't know if I'd go quite that far, but still, her strategy is intriguing. I won't forget it.

The pamphlet tells me about the seventieth victor, and then the section ends. Hmm. This must have been written four years ago. I go back to the beginning and check for a publishing year, but I don't find one. There's nothing but Capitol fluff.

Unless their deaths directly relate to the victor, the tributes who didn't win aren't mentioned, which irritates me. Then I turn the pamphlet over to see that the back is almost entirely covered with a long list of names in tiny black print. I stare, one hand covering my mouth in shock, as my gaze sweeps the endless wall of words. It goes on and on and on…

**Knock, knock.**

The sound startles me into reflexively stashing the pamphlet under a pillow. Just in time, too, because the door slides open, and there stands Onsona Kellor. She looks to be in her late thirties, but she's prematurely gray. She's also taller than me, more solidly built, and smiling politely. Managing to return that smile, I jump off the bed and go over to meet her.

"Hi, Fleta, I'm Onsona, your mentor," she says, even though I already know.

"Hi," I reply, because I never remember to repeat people's names after I learn them. She sticks out her hand, and I shake it.

"It's time for supper. Follow me," she says, and walks off down the hallway. I trail after her, trying to get used to the fact that the floor is trembling beneath my feet.

The dimly lit corridor opens into a grand dining hall with glossy hardwood floors and polished windows that flood the room with sunlight. A long table, set for twelve, stretches across the center of the room. Only one person is seated, though, at the head of the table: Isabelline Bycaster. Even though I know from the reaping that she has blue hair and purple eyes, I'm still surprised at the sight. I guess I'm not accustomed to Capitol fashion yet.

Onsona and I take our seats on Isabelline's left.

Isabelline drums her dark blue nails on the table. Onsona stares fixedly at nothing. I gaze down at my empty plate. What are we waiting for?

I get my answer when a door opposite the one I entered from slides open, and Ryder strides in, Codon Filfri stumbling along in his wake. When they reach the table, Ryder makes to sit down, but Codon just stands there mumbling to himself. Ryder frowns, and actually has to push his mentor into a chair. I risk half a glance at Onsona. As guilty as I feel about it, I'm glad I got a decent mentor. I think she grins at me, but I can't be sure because dinner is being served.

Silent people in white bring us our supper in courses. Creamy soup with potatoes and bacon; a salad with croutons, and delicious dressing; pasta with sausage, cheese, and tomato; assorted fruits arranged on a platter; and to top it all off, apple pie á la mode, a delicacy I hadn't even heard of until today. I've had good food before, yes, but never like this. It's only after two helpings of soup, one serving of salad, two platefuls of pasta, a few pieces of fruit, and two portions of dessert that I lay my fork down, utterly stuffed and a little nauseous. Ryder looks like he's feeling the same way.

The mute servants come to collect our dishes. "Thank you," I say to the one that picks up my plate. He looks down at me for a second, and then leaves without a word. I must look confused, because Onsona touches my arm and says in a low voice, "They can't talk. They're Avoxes."

"Avoxes?" I whisper back.

"Criminals whose tongues were cut out by the Capitol."

"Oh," I say quietly. Suddenly I feel sick, and it's not from overeating.

Isabelline leads us from the dining hall into another part of the train. This room contains only a couch and a couple armchairs. It reminds me of the Justice Building. I quickly push that memory away before I cry in front of everybody.

"What's going on in here?" I ask.

"We're going to watch the reapings!" Isabelline practically sings. "Aren't you excited?" She sits down on the couch, apparently eager for the program to start as soon as possible.

"Ecstatic," says Ryder flatly as he collapses into an armchair. Even though he's a jerk, I can't help but grin.

The recap begins promptly at eight o'clock. I watch intently, to try to get an idea of what I'll be up against.

The only thing worth noting about District 1's reaping is that the stereotypically good-looking boy and girl are both volunteers.

The tributes from 2, also volunteers, are terrifying in different ways. The girl looks cold, cruel, and calculating. The boy, muscles bulging, shoves people out of the way to get to the stage. When they shake hands, the boy and girl have identical, evil smiles on their faces, and it occurs to me that they might have planned this. I decide that I'll have to be careful around District 2.

3 and 4 pass me by without making an impression, and then it's our turn.

On TV, my name is drawn. For the first couple seconds, I look shocked, but then I collect myself. Coy informs me that I've been called. I walk to the stage, and it's obvious when I glower at my escort. The recap's commentators laugh at this.

"Oops. Sorry, Isabelline," I say now, and she smiles wanly back at me.

Onscreen, Isabelline grabs Ryder's name from the glass ball. He comes forward and stands onstage. We shake hands.

It doesn't show on television, but I'm reminded of how he nodded at me, and I glance over at him. But he avoids eye contact, so I turn my attention back to the screen.

The reapings in 6, 7, 8, and 9 aren't very exciting at all. In fact, I'm falling asleep when Isabelline makes a quiet, distressed little sound.

"Oh…"

With difficulty, I open my eyes. The boy tribute from District 10 is making his way slowly up to the stage to join a snooty-looking blonde girl. At first glance, I can't see why he'd merit Isabelline's sympathy. But then I peer more closely at the screen.

He's crippled.

The boy walks with as much dignity as he can muster; although he holds a cane in his right hand and drags his right foot behind him, his back is straight and his head is high. Mercifully, the crowd parts for him.

"It's okay," I whisper, as though he could hear me.

Next is District 11, where a tiny girl and a giant of a boy are reaped. And then it gets really interesting. In District 12, a young, blonde girl is called up to the stage. But almost at once, an older girl volunteers in her place. She tells her escort that her name is Katniss Everdeen, so I guess she and Primrose are sisters, but they look nothing alike. The Then a blond boy is reaped, and he shakes hands with Katniss Everdeen. They share a look, and I can tell they know each other. I frown. Now I have two districts to watch out for.

Then the anthem plays, and the Capitol seal flashes once before the screen fades to black.

The five of us sit in silence for a moment, pondering the fact that out of the twenty-four tributes shown, twenty-three will die.

"Well, that's it!" says Isabelline cheerily, standing up and clapping her hands together. "Time for bed, everyone! Tomorrow is another day!"

Onsona bids us good night, and departs. When it's clear Codon is still unresponsive, Ryder has to physically drag him out of the room, leaving me alone with my escort.

"Do you know how to get back to your chambers, Fleta?" Isabelline's violet eyes are full of concern. She has pronounced my name incorrectly (it's fl**eh**ta, not fl**ee**ta) but I ignore her mistake.

"Yes, thank you," I respond. "See you tomorrow."

Back in my room, I change into a mint green silk nightgown and snuggle up under the covers. I'm very ready for bed. This day has been unimaginably long. Was it really only ten-and-a-half hours ago that bright sunlight was the greatest of my problems? A huge yawn nearly splits my head in two. Unable to fight it any longer, I close my eyes and succumb to my exhaustion, sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	6. Chapter 5: They're Gonna Love You

The next morning, I know, even before I open my eyes, that I'm not at home. In District 5, I sleep on a cot with a quilt. But here, I'm safe, warm and comfortable in a den of pillows and blankets. Not wanting to truly wake up, I sink deeper into the bed, willing sleep to reclaim me.

And then a sharp fingernail jabs me in the eye.

"OW!" I sit straight up in bed, hissing expletives.

"Whoopsies!" squeaks Isabelline Bycaster.

Isabelline Bycaster?

Oh. Right. The Games. The events of yesterday come rushing back to me all at once. I was reaped. Ryder's here too. We're on a tribute train, literally speeding toward our deaths. And the odds are never in our favor. The sense of dread that lightened as I slept returns with a vengeance; there's a crushing weight on my stomach. Oh, and _throbbing pain in my eyeball_. I clamp a hand over my injury and glare at Isabelline with my good eye.

"Where did I poke you?" she asks sheepishly.

As if it weren't obvious!

Stifling a powerful urge to throttle my escort, I simply shake my head. Still blushing, she slips outside. After I change my clothes, we walk to the dining car.

At one end of the long table, Onsona sits with perfect posture. At the other, Codon isn't seated on a chair so much as being supported by it. Ryder, sporting terrible bedhead, sits next to his mentor.

I take my place beside Onsona. In what is probably an attempt to remain neutral, Isabelline chooses a chair that is equidistant from both tributes. The Avoxes bring out the food: rolls, eggs, cheese, fruit, and round, sugary pastries that Isabelline calls doughnuts. I sip from my cup without really tasting the rich milk inside. Across the table, a pained-looking Ryder pushes a forkful of eggs into his mentor's hand. Codon, with trembling fingers, tries to guide the fork toward his mouth. But he misses, and the eggs spill down his front. Ryder slumps back in his seat, running his hands through his hair.

The reason for my district partner's despair is clear. Codon can't even eat breakfast properly. How can he possibly keep Ryder alive in the arena?

That is, after all, a mentor's job: to help their tribute toward victory. And I'm certain Onsona won't let me down. But Codon is not Onsona, and I'm equally certain that for most of the Games, Ryder will have only himself to depend on.

I sigh. I know I should be glad to have an advantage over Ryder– one less tribute to worry about– but I just can't find it in myself to be that callous. I don't particularly like Ryder, but he does deserve as much of a chance as any other tribute.

After breakfast, I glance around for my district partner and spot him standing at the window. I join him, and together we watch the land speed by.

I'm just getting used to the silence when Ryder breaks it.

"You're lucky."

Even though I think I know what he's getting at, I reply, "I am?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him turn toward me. "Sure," he says, his tone not quite concealing his bitterness. "_You're_ lucky. _Your _mentor isn't a complete and total _mess_."

I chuckle without humor. "If I were _really_ lucky, I wouldn't need a mentor at all."

That shuts Ryder up. He turns his attention back to the window. But after a while, I look at him.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He stares out at whatever district we're in. "For what?"

"For the fact that you have to go through these Games with a disoriented mentor. For the fact that either of us has to go through these Games at all," I say. "The fact that we dislike each other for stupid reasons. The fact that we'll always have to dislike each other now." Why am I still talking? "The fact that in the arena, we'll be trying to kill each other… the fact that one or both of us will be dead by the time all this is over."

Ryder glances at me suspiciously, but then looks back out at Panem, and lowers both his gaze and his voice. "Yeah, Fleta. I'm sorry, too."

As if on cue, the world plunges into darkness. I freeze up for a second before I remember that we're scheduled to pass through a tunnel in the mountains. So we must be arriving there shortly! I take a few minutes to compile a mental image of the Capitol, wondering how it will compare to the real thing.

Suddenly, the train starts to slow, and bright light temporarily blinds me. I blink frequently, willing the colors that swim before my eyes to fade. They do, and I look out eagerly at the famous city. Glossy cars, smooth streets, majestic buildings that seem to scrape the sky; these things are extraordinary, but in all honesty, the scenery is nothing compared to the people. It's like they take the word "freak" as a compliment. Neon colors are caked onto faces and burned into skin; bright, flashy garments and extravagant, odd hairstyles are seen no matter which way you turn.

Wide, excited smiles appear beneath their clownish makeup as they spot us. They wave and holler and jump up and down. Ryder, always Mr. Tough Guy, scowls at them and then steps out of their line of sight. I, however, know better than to alienate potential sponsors. It's despicable, yes, but if I want to survive these Games, I have to be a player.

Hesitantly, I lift one hand and wave.

I can't hear them through the thick window, but it looks like they send up a cheer in response. I force myself to grin, and wave again. They're definitely jubilant this time, pressing forward toward the train. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Should I blow them a kiss? Smile and step backward?

It quickly becomes a moot point, though, because the train pulls into the station and I'm out of their view. Thank goodness. I turn away from the window, right into Ryder.

"Sorry," I say automatically.

He folds his arms over his chest and glares down at me.

"Something wrong?" I ask nervously.

"Something sure isn't right," he says coldly. "What do you think you're doing, sucking up to those idiots in circus wear?"

Mercifully, I'm spared a response by Onsona, who sweeps me toward the exit, saying, "All right, you, time to meet your prep team. Stand straight. Big smile. They're gonna love you."

Over her shoulder, my murderous-looking district partner strides toward us, his mentor stumbling along in his wake.

I swallow. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

The crowds weren't bad, but the Remake Center is like my own personal hell.

Well, okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but it honestly isn't pleasant. For the past three hours, my prep team– Nicola, Rinnie, and Thead– have been "eliminating my flaws". This process includes: using a burning chemical to eradicate unsightly hair; combing, straightening, and rubbing liquids into the hair on my head; ridding my skin of dirt, germs, and dead cells; and finally, coating my entire body with a product that gives me what they call "a healthy glow".

Oh, and I should mention that ever since I stepped into the room, I haven't been allowed to wear a stitch of clothing.

At first, I was mortified to stand naked in front of three people I barely knew. But as the hours dragged on, I realized that Nicola, Rinnie, and Thead don't see my body as belonging to a person at all; to them, it's more of a problem in desperate need of a solution.

Now my prep team stands back and circles around me, sweeping their critical gazes up and down my body. Then they stop and share a look. Thead gives a satisfied nod, Rinnie squeals with excitement, and Nicola claps her hands with finality. "Good job, team. Our work here is done!"

The same proud smile spreads briefly over all three of their faces. Thead, the only male member of my prep team, exits the room to get my stylist. Nicola and Rinnie scurry around cleaning everything up. Then the door swings open, and there stands a tall, thin man.

At first, I intend to see who he is, but his attire distracts me. The man is dressed in several high-quality garments of different colors, patterns and styles, draped over his body seemingly at random. It's like he loves all of his outfits so much that he couldn't pick just one. Raising my eyes to the man's face, I recognize him: hey, that's Cabriole Paisley!

I don't know Cabriole personally, but from watching the Games on TV. He's been a Hunger Games stylist for a decade or so. His designs are always unforgettable, and depending on his mood, But I'm thinking more of the fact that the guy himself is a total stereotype: flamboyant, sassy, and fashion-obsessed. Jyoti and I used to double over laughing back home, watching Cabriole Paisley strut around the Capitol like some kind of strange, multicolored bird. I stifle a smile at the memory.

"Hey, babe, I'm Cabriole Paisley," says my stylist. "It's totally nice to meet you!"

Yup, total stereotype.

"Hi, I'm Fleta," I grin back at him. "Nice to meet you, too."

We size each other up, with Cabriole looking at my body as if it's a blank canvas waiting for a masterpiece, and with me trying to figure out how old he is. Hmm. Despite his attempts to act younger, he's probably in his early thirties.

Then Cabriole snaps his fingers, and Rinnie and Thead rush forward and drape a robe around my shoulders. Gratefully, I pull my arms through the sleeves and tie the sash. Cabriole winces, as if it causes him actual pain not to be clothing me in some sort of gaudy ballgown, and beckons me into a sitting room.

It doesn't look like much at first: just four white walls, two dark green armchairs and a low table between them. But then I raise my gaze and gasp. The ceiling is made entirely of glass. It's overcast today, so it's not much too look at, but I imagine that it would be beautiful with a brilliant blue sky and billowing white clouds outside.

Eventually I realize that I've been standing in the doorway for far too long. Cabriole is already seated in one of the green armchairs, perched on the edge of his seat, sipping tea. Lunch has appeared on the table below him, although I don't remember it being there a few minutes ago. Grimacing apologetically, I sit in the second armchair.

The small feast before us consists of rich soup alongside buttery rolls, colorful fruits arranged in shapes on my plate, and another tempting slice of apple pie á la mode, just like the one on the train. With a nod from Cabriole, I dig in, filling my empty stomach with delicious food. He eats nothing; all he does is fold his long white fingers together and rest his chin on top.

"So, babe, talk to me. Have you, like, given any thought as to what you'll be wearing for the opening ceremonies tonight?"

I lay down my spoon and wipe my mouth with a cloth napkin. So his flamboyancy isn't just an act for the cameras. That's interesting… and also annoying.

"I thought that was your job," I say, a bit more harshly than I had originally intended.

He looks offended. "Well, yeah, but I was wondering if your expectations match what I'm providing. Don't get your panties in a twist, mmkay babe?"

Panties in a...? Ugh. He's getting on my last nerve. But I've always been pretty good at faking nice, so that's what I do now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you," I say soothingly. "Please go on." I smile as if nothing in the world could interest me more than what I'll be wearing to the opening ceremonies of a custom that kills.

"Well, all right then. As I was saying," Cabriole continues enthusiastically, "I've had this utterly fantastic idea, if I do say so myself. I promise, your dress will be to _die_ for!"

Oh, the irony.

"Girl, we are going to knock the other tributes right out of the Games," says Cabriole with a mischievous smile.

"So what's your big idea?" I ask.

"Well," he says with a smack of his bright red lips, "See, your district is, like, the printing press, right?"

"Right," I say apprehensively.

"And you guys are totally obsessed with words, right?"

"Riiiight…"

"And that means you're all, like, huge nerds, right?"

Um, no. That's an assumption that idiots make. But I give the obligatory, "Right."

An evil grin spreads across Cabriole's face. "And nerds are so totally sexy, right?"

_Uh-oh._

_

* * *

_

**A/N: Sorry for the three emails; I accidentally kept submitting this before I had it exactly the way I wanted it. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Next up are the opening ceremonies. Oh, and see that button down there? Yeah, you should click it. Click it, or forever wish you had.**_  
_


	7. Chapter 6: Candles on the Cake

**A/N: I am so sorry for the wait! School has been crazy, and the writer's block didn't help anything. Anyway, here you are. Enjoy!  
**

Atop the District 5 chariot, I attempt, for the umpteenth time, to cover more of myself by pulling the bottom of my dress down. And, for the umpteenth time, Cabriole yanks my hands away, forcing them to drop to my sides. "Leave it alone," he hisses, and vanishes back into the crowd. I sigh and shift uncomfortably, silently willing the other tributes not to look at me.

Cabriole has forced me into a strapless white dress, with a tight bodice and a hemline that barely reaches my thighs. A wide black sash encircles my waist, and printed on the dark satin in tiny silver lettering are hundreds and hundreds of words. My red hair is twisted into a knot at the back of my head, with a pencil is thrust through it to hold it in place. The rest of the outfit includes a sapphire pendant, knee-high black boots, and enormous round spectacles that keep falling off my face. Lastly, black eyeliner and neon blue lipstick supposedly bring out my best features.

I have never felt less like myself.

Next to me, Ryder isn't much happier. In fact, I keep glancing over at him to remind myself that I'm not the only freak here. After a few minutes of this, he snaps, "Quit it!"

I smile. "I can't help it. You look ridiculous."

Honestly, he does. Ryder's body, face, and hair have been coated in a thick layer of dark green paint. He wears a pair of lime green boxer shorts, decorated with a pattern of currency symbols. He has absolutely nothing else on, not even shoes.

Together, we represent the two main products of District 5, books and money, in an utterly bizarre fashion.

Before us, District 4's chariot starts on its way, and as if on cue, our frantic stylists come tearing out of nowhere to make last-minute adjustments to our costumes. Ryder's stylist urges him in her peculiar accent, "Suck in your stomach! Your six-pack wants to come out and play!"

Come out and play? I can't help but laugh, and Ryder shoots me a look. My comeuppance comes in the form of Cabriole, who orders me once again to _**leave the hemline alone**_. This time, Ryder snorts, and I scowl. Immediately following this exchange, the two stylists vanish back into the throng of people.

And then our chariot begins to roll.

Onsona has instructed me to smile and wave at my supporters. At the time, I thought she was joking. Who in their right mind would cheer for _me_? But as we enter the City Circle, I get my answer.

At the sight of us, the crowd erupts in enthusiastic applause, shouting our district and our names, which must be in the program. How else would they know them?

Why they are doing this, I cannot fathom– we look like complete fools– but I know Onsona would want me to just play along, so I do. Beaming as brightly as I can, I take a deep breath and wave to the crowd. They immediately go berserk, and I hear my name shouted on all sides.

"Fleta! Fleta! Fletaaaaa!"

I lower my hand, astonished at the reaction a simple hand gesture can cause. Astonished that they know me at all.

Since the train, Ryder seems to have gotten advice from his stylist, and has shed both his scowl and his bad attitude. He is now completely at home in front of an audience, waving and smiling and blowing kisses to some of the girls. The crowd absolutely eats it up. And to top it all off, several of the girls actually faint. Ryder grins cockily as they fall out of sight, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Ryder Anonian, no matter where he is, will always be Ryder Anonian.

Our four chestnut horses pull us through the streets, into the City Circle, and right up to President Snow's mansion, where we take our place behind District 4 and wait for the rest of the tributes to arrive.

Chariot after chariot after chariot rolls into view, and soon both the costumes and the kids wearing them begin to blur before my eyes. The audience seems to be losing focus, too; their cheers diminish with every new pair of tributes.

I have just about given up on paying attention when a sudden roar from the spectators startles me into awareness. I immediately look up to see what has caused this riot.

It's District 12.

And, seeing them, there's no questioning who got the best stylists.

They're dressed in complementary outfits, which by itself is something rarely seen in the opening ceremonies. They're also holding hands, which I've never seen in the ceremonies at all. But the most stunning thing about this duo is that their costumes are ablaze. They each wear a cape consumed by dazzling fire. Flames dance upon their headdresses and race along their bodies. Red, orange, yellow. I have to admit, it's breathtaking, especially as twilight falls.

I glance at the other chariots out of the corner of my eye. My fellow tributes all wear identical expressions of shock, which give way to sadness on some faces and jealousy on others. District 2 looks especially murderous, and I shiver involuntarily. How little it takes to anger them.

Another quick scan of the chariots confirms that I'm one of the few who haven't reacted at all. This is because, unlike everyone else, I'm not exactly surprised by this turn of events. I knew District 12 would be problematic from the moment I saw them in the recaps. For me, these fiery costumes are just the candles on the cake.

Of course, I can understand why the others are irritated. District 12 has just blown us all away.

I watch as they make their way around to join us. Even though their costumes are still burning, the tributes from 12 don't look to be in pain. So it's color-changing, harmless, synthetic fire? How could any Capitol stylist possibly be intelligent enough to invent something like that?

President Snow's voice rings out, interrupting my thoughts.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

Right.

Two minutes into the president's official welcome, my mind begins to wander. I can't help it. I've never liked speeches. So, instead of listening, I entertain myself by mentally rating my fellow tributes' costumes from best to worst. When I tire of that, I look up at the prestigious Capitol citizens above us and imagine what ridiculous names they must have. Playing little games like these, the time passes quickly, and soon our well-trained horses begin to move again, pulling us back to the Training Center.

Immediately after disembarking, the twenty-four of us file into the two spacious elevators. Since Ryder and I are from District 5, we'll be on the fifth floor. As the elevator rises, I look through the glass, away from the other tributes, and all I can think about is how in a week, we'll be trying to kill each other.

A sharp voice cuts into the silence. "Ugh, can you believe they made us dress like this? What will the girls back home think?"

I automatically glance toward the source of the complaint. It's a tall, blonde girl who looks about seventeen. She must be from District 10, livestock, because she wears a headband with fake cow ears, a bell around her neck, and a cow-skin dress. Her costume isn't great, but it's not horrible either, so I lose interest and have started to turn away again when she notices me and snaps, "What are you looking at, ginger?"

I freeze, not sure how to respond. Altercations are not allowed until the Games begin, but tributes have been known to clash anyway. If this girl attacks, what am I going to do? She's bigger than me, so I can't fight her off. We're in an elevator, so I can't run. And even though I can see Ryder in the corner, he's staring determinedly away from me, arms folded. His message is clear: I'm not going to get involved.

A boy, dressed similarly to the blonde girl, squeezes between two tributes and lays a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down, Blake. She didn't mean anything by it."

Blake glares at me, obviously unconvinced.

"I mean, come on," the boy continues. "It's only common courtesy. If she was talking, wouldn't you listen?"

Blake whirls on him, flushing with anger. "Oh, shut up! What do you know, anyway?"

Just then, thankfully, we stop at the fifth floor. I don't hesitate to run out of the elevator, Ryder trailing behind in my wake. Chancing a backwards glance, I catch a single, fleeting glimpse of a scowling Blake and the boy that stood up to her. The doors slide shut, and I turn and stride down the empty hallway, eager to get back to my room.

"What happened back there?" Ryder demands, following me down the hall.

"All I did was look at her, Ryder. Calm down," I say.

"You're already making enemies, and we haven't even started training yet!" he yells.

"Me? She's the one that blew up!" I tell him. "And besides, why do you care? It's not like we're allies."

"But we_ are_ district partners. So now District Ten is going to hate me, too!" he fumes.

Hate us? No, I don't believe District 10 will hate us. At least… not both of them.

"Just because I looked at her costume?" I ask. "I mean, come on, think about it: two tributes hating two other tributes for doing practically nothing. Where's the logic there?"

"You know what, just shut up, Fleta," he says in disgust. "I think I preferred it when you didn't talk at all."

With that, he disappears into his quarters, and I'm alone.

Again.

**A/N: ****Thanks for reading; please review? :)**


	8. Chapter 7: Fraternizing With the Enemy

When I wake the next morning, I immediately tense up. Does training begin today? No… no, I can feel how late in the morning it is. It must be eleven o'clock or so, and yet no one has come to collect me. From this I gather that the day after the opening ceremonies is one of rest. Today will be the closest thing to a normal day I'll ever get.

Better make the most of it.

So I decide to try to forget about the Games. I have no desire to go outside and see Blake or Ryder or any of the other tributes, because they will only remind me why I'm here. Actually, I could be happy just hanging out in my spacious, plush, high-tech quarters for the next twelve hours.

So, recluse that I am, that's what I do.

There's certainly enough in here to keep me occupied. I spend what is left of the morning taking a very long shower. There's a panel from which you can choose various soaps and shampoos. I try out as many as I can, until at last I tire of being on my feet for so long. As I step out onto the mat, blow-dryers automatically start up. I press my palm onto a nearby box, and the gadget untangles, combs, dries, and parts my hair, leaving it silky and smooth. Amazing!

Even the closet has a panel. Tapping a few buttons, I choose to wear roomy black pants (listed as "gauchos") and a dark blue tanktop. After I'm dressed, I act on a whim, climbing up onto my bed and jumping up and down. The sunlight that streams through my windows envelops me. Nice and warm. At last, I let myself collapse onto my pillows, laughing. I can't remember the last time I felt this content.

Now hungry, I walk over to the enormous menu on the wall and select my meal. Then I speak into the mouthpiece. "Penne pasta with sausage and tomato, and baked potato soup, please." Left with little else to do while I wait, I measure time in my head. Exactly forty-five seconds after my order was placed, my food appears. I happily dig in, devouring the delicious dishes as quickly as I want.

No one is around to say, "Eat more slowly, Fleta, or you'll choke!" No one is here to tell me to sit up straight while I eat. My smile fades as I realize this. There's no one to scold me for eating in my bedroom. No one to tease me about how my food isn't going anywhere. No one to talk with. No one to listen to.

No, my family is a world away.

I slowly lay down my utensils and wipe my mouth with my napkin, having lost my appetite.

I spend the rest of the afternoon at my window watching the citizens of the Capitol go about their business, if you could call gossiping and primping "business". As the sun begins its descent into the west, Onsona comes to escort me to dinner. We walk through the fifth floor of the Training Center in silence, Onsona staring straight ahead, and me trying to bring back the happiness I felt earlier. The little that does return is enough for me to work up a grin, even though the action feels forced. So it's with a strained smile that I accompany my mentor into the dining room.

We eat rigidly. Ryder and I are not speaking or even making eye contact, and we're both very aware of what tomorrow will bring, and it's affecting the general environment. Codon focuses on eating and Onsona wisely leaves us alone, but Isabelline valiantly attempts to keep up a conversation. _What is life in District 5 like? What do we do in our free time? What are our favorite colors? Do we like blue? That's her favorite color._

Ryder grunts in response, but I, at least, give halfhearted answers. It's simple enough to do. _Um, life back home was okay, I guess. Reading and running were fun. Yes, Isabelline, I'm rather partial to the color blue._

But then Isabelline asks about my family, and memories begin to cloud my mind. I stare at my napkin without really seeing it, and my replies, like Ryder's, become monosyllabic. My heart is beating very fast. I want to get out of there.

So when the silent Avoxes finally appear to clear our dishes away, I use the opportunity to flee the room, ignoring Isabelline's distressed calls of, "Fleta! Fleta, where are you going?" Sprinting down the hall and into my quarters, I throw open a window and lean outside, hoping the cool air will help me focus.

It does. Soon, I'm breathing normally again, and my heart rate has regulated. I quietly close the window, change into my nightgown and snuggle up in bed, intending to fall asleep before I have time to worry about tomorrow will bring.

…

The next day, I wake up on my own, before the sun even rises, and I can't get back to sleep. So when it does rise, I'm sitting there at the dining table with my hair in a ponytail and my chin in my hand, staring at the overly fancy floral centerpiece without really seeing it, and waiting for everyone else to show up.

Onsona enters first, walking primly to the table and taking her seat beside me. Smoothing her perfectly combed gray hair, she gives me a polite smile, which I try to return, though I know my attempt probably comes out as more of a grimace. Oh, well. It's much too early in the morning to be smiling, anyway.

Twenty minutes later, Ryder is the next. I still don't know whether we've gotten past our fight, so I avoid eye contact with him to be safe. But he doesn't even glance my way. Unceremoniously, he stomps across the room, pulls out a chair, and plunks himself down in it. He puts his head down on the table and gives an audible groan. I have ten seconds to wonder what's wrong before two male Avoxes appear, supporting Codon between them.

Oh. The whole my-mentor-sucks thing.

They help him to his seat, where he fixes his sunken eyes on Ryder and doesn't look away. I suppose this could be considered progress. Creepy progress, but progress nonetheless.

Last to arrive and first to break the silence is Isabelline, who flies into view on the verge of both panic and tears, shrieking that I'm not in my room! I'm not in my room! What if somebody stole me out of my bed while they were all sleeping? What if I ran away? What will I do? I can't have just vanished into thin air so where could I possibly be?

Wordlessly, everyone at the table indicates me. I give Isabelline a curt wave.

"Oh," says Isabelline. "Hello, Fleta." She sits down and takes a shaky sip of her coffee, and doesn't say anything for the rest of breakfast, probably hoping we'll all forget about her little episode.

With Ryder having been there? Fat chance. Five minutes after she calmed down, he's still smirking.

The only sound is the quiet clinking of dishes and silverware as the Avoxes bring out breakfast.

My stomach is starting to adjust to the rich Capitol food, so I eat my toast, eggs, and berry-topped pancakes more enthusiastically than I have in the past few days.

Ryder, I notice, only picks at his food, using his fork to turn sausages over on his plate. Once they've flopped into the rest of his food, he stares at them sullenly before spearing them again and starting the whole process over.

I wonder if he knows how tiresome his moody act is getting.

Once everyone seems like they've finished eating, Onsona presses her napkin to her mouth for a moment and then abruptly rises from her chair. "Come, Fleta. It's time to discuss training."

"Um…"

I glance uncertainly at first Isabelline, who just smiles back at me, and then at Ryder. This time, he is the one to avoid eye contact, choosing instead to glare at Codon.

"Okay," I say hesitantly. Onsona walks out of the dining room at a brisk pace, and I follow her, half-running to catch up.

She leads me into a room with two chairs, and gestures for me to sit. She takes her seat opposite me and says plainly, "What are you good at?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Try to think," says Onsona.

I hesitate.

"I work at the printing press," I say, my face burning because what good is knowing how to typeset when someone's coming at you with a spear? "I babysit my little brother, Coy. Um, I read a lot. I run."

Immediately after saying this, I feel stupid. See Fleta run. Run, Fleta, run.

"You run?" says Onsona immediately.

"Yeah, I used to deliver messages for people around my district," I explain. I can't quite keep the hope from seeping into my voice. "Why?"

Onsona looks pleased. "Running helps, Fleta. Running really helps."

In the next moment, she's out of her seat, pacing the room. "What else?"

What else?

I've never been one of those talented girls. Though I'm fast, I'm not particularly strong. I'm not particularly friendly or brainy or brave. I just kind of… blend into the background.

That's when it hits me.

"Onsona, I know what I can do! I can blend in!"

The words tumble out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

Onsona stops. She turns.

"Just blend in, huh?"

And after a moment of studying my expression, one corner of her mouth pulls up in a smile.

"That'll do."

…

Running and hiding. They sound like the strategy of a coward. But if Onsona thinks they'll keep me alive, who am I to question it?

Besides, I'm not a fighter.

I know this for sure at nine-thirty, when I'm standing in the Training Center with the other tributes. The _Careers_ are the fighters, born and bred. They're big, strong, ruthless, and honestly, completely terrifying. Mostly unsuccessfully, I try to think of more pleasant things while we wait for everyone else to show up. Finally, a few minutes before ten o'clock the tributes from 12 come in, and we can begin.

The head trainer introduces herself as Atala, and goes through an explanation of the training schedule that sounds as though she has given it a hundred times before. Basically, the tributes can visit whatever training stations we want for the next three days, and if we want to fight, it has to be with an assistant, not another tribute.

As soon as Atala says we can go, the Careers start practicing with the scariest weapons there are. And of course, they already know how to use them. Those damn cheaters! I'd love to stride right up to that boy from District 4 and just call him out on his illegal training! And I would, too, except that he's roughly twice my size and I'm not stupid enough to do it.

In keeping with Onsona's instructions, I decide to head to camouflage first. The trainer there shows me how to combine mud and leaves and other natural substances to make myself literally blend into the background. After forty-five minutes, I've actually gotten quite good at it, though of course I still intend to come back here tomorrow.

The next station I visit is concerned with hand-to-hand combat. I try my best, but the assistant still has me pinned and helpless after only about five minutes. "Well," he sighs, "You have two choices. One, you could try it again and I could show you some techniques, or two, you could go off and find another strategy."

I think. Running and hiding. Hiding and running.

"Can you show me some techniques?" I ask meekly.

_Surely Onsona wouldn't be too disappointed in me, _I think as I fight. _What if I'm discovered? No one ever really wins hide-and-go-seek. They eventually have to come out. So in the event that I am caught, this is just a means to defend myself. I won't spend all my time on it._

But, for that day, I do. I spend the rest of the training session trying to conquer hand-to-hand combat. And, at the end, I've beaten the assistant six times.

"Excellent!" he praises me. "I've never seen such progress!"

He probably says that to all the tributes, but that doesn't stop the compliment from making me happy. I feel secure in knowing that if I am found, I will be able to fight.

As we begin to walk out of the Training Center, I feel a hand on my shoulder. For a second, I think to myself, with a wide grin, that I could grab that hand and twist that arm, and whoever was touching me would find themselves doubling over in pain, not knowing what had hit them.

Yeah, I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. You would, too, if you'd learned how to survive hand-to-hand combat in the span of a few hours.

Anyway, this isn't the arena, so I turn to see who it is.

It's the boy from the elevator!

"Hey! I know you!" I say, surprised.

"You know me?" he asks, sounding equally surprised.

"Yeah!" I say enthusiastically. "You're the guy who defended me! You're from Ten; you're Blake's district partner. Right?"

"Right," says the boy, looking pleased. "I didn't think you'd remember."

"Of course I remember. It happened, what, two days ago? I never got the chance to thank you. So… thank you," I say with a smile. "Really." Somehow, the sight of this particular boy, combined with my exhilaration upon learning hand-to-hand combat, has gotten me into a fantastic mood.

"You're welcome, really," he answers with a grin. He sticks out a hand. "I'm Aiden."

"Fleta," I reply, performing the obligatory handshake.

"So what did you think of the training session?" Aiden asks as we head for the elevator, tributes shuffling about all around us. "I noticed you spent a lot of time at that hand-to-hand station. I wish I could do that kind of stuff." He looks down regretfully. I gasp as I recognize the cane he leans on, and then I look up and recognize him. He's the boy I saw in the recap of the reapings, the one with the bad leg.

"Well, maybe someday you can," I offer. "They've got miracle remedies at the Capitol these days."

"Not that they'd ever give them to me," says Aiden with a shrug.

"They will if you win!" I argue, and then fall silent, realizing what I've just said.

Aiden smiles wistfully. "The first cripple to win the Hunger Games. That'll be the day."

As the elevator doors close in front of us, I can feel my face burning with shame. "Don't call yourself that."

"Why not? It's what I am," he says wryly.

"No, it's not," I say, suddenly remembering where I saw him that day. "You're a gatherer, aren't you? You spent a lot of time at the edible plants station."

Aiden shrugs again, and now he's the one to be embarrassed. "District Ten is in charge of livestock. You have to know which plants are edible and which aren't, otherwise you end up with a lot of dead cows."

"See, and you can use that knowledge for yourself in the arena as well," I say brightly, even though I know I shouldn't give him ideas. Fraternizing with the enemy and all that.

"Guess I can," says Aiden, laughing a little. "All right, you talked me into it. I'm not a cripple. Better?"

"Immensely," I say with a smile as the elevator stops at my floor. The doors slide open. "See you at training tomorrow."

"Bye," he responds, grinning back at me. Then a familiar face pushes past Aiden and the tribute standing next to him. Thankfully, it isn't Blake. Ryder barely makes it out of the elevator, stumbling through the doors just as they close behind him.

My district partner brushes himself off, straightening to his full height of about five feet, nine inches, and glares at me.

"What?" I ask, irritated. "Going to tell me off for being nice?"

"I don't think you understand, Fleta," he says through gritted teeth. "It's the Hunger Games, and you're treating it like it's ring-around-the-rosy!"

"Why, because I talked to somebody outside my district?" I retort. I don't know where this courageous version of me, this girl who dares to talk back to Ryder Anonian, came from, but I'm glad she's here and I'm not stopping her. "Look how you've been acting ever since the reaping! Not exactly establishing yourself as someone to have a pleasant chat with, are you?"

"Because- I'm- going- to- DIE," spits Ryder. "And so are you!"

"You're so quick to write us off, just because we're not Careers," I say heatedly. "Do you wish you were a Career, Ryder? Go on, tell the truth!"

"The TRUTH?" yells Ryder.

All at once, the anger drains out of him, leaving him looking empty and defeated. "The truth…" he says, in such a broken voice that I feel bad for him. "The truth is that I wish I had never even heard of these stupid Games."

Then he walks into his quarters, and the door whooshes shut behind him.

**A/N: And so Chapter Seven ends the same way Chapter Six did: with another Fleta/Ryder fight. In other news, I'm back from the dead! I'm really sorry that this was so long in coming. As I said on my profile, I was participating in NaNoWriMo for the first time this year, which has been time-consuming. But I'm finished now and I promise to try harder at updating. Just rest assured I have NOT abandoned this story. Lastly, thanks for the reviews!**


	9. Chapter 8: Friendship is a NoNo

The next day, I put the whole episode with Ryder behind me, determined to concentrate on myself for once and train as hard as I can. Of course, my strategy still revolves around running and hiding, but I do want to have a backup plan in case I break my leg or something, so I resolve to try some more activities over the course of the next two days.

On the second day of training, Aiden and I often end up in the same area for whatever reason, so we have a few conversations. Sometimes our exchanges are short, and they're usually a little awkward, but never unpleasant. However, they're definitely strained. I get the feeling that Blake has warned Aiden against talking to me, just like Ryder yelled at me for talking to Aiden. And past that, we can't bring ourselves to talk about the Games. Neither of us wants to think about how we'll be trying to kill each other once we're in that arena. So we talk about other things.

As we tie knots or swing axes or climb walls, we talk about the costumes we wore at the opening ceremonies, about what our favorite foods in the Capitol are, about how we think the interviews will go. And the conversation begins to flow smoothly. Aiden's not a bad guy to talk to. But right before we break for lunch, there's a fleeting moment where I think, _I'm beginning to make a friend_. I distinctly remember Onsona calling friendship a "no-no". So I collect my food and seat myself as far from Aiden as possible. After I've taken a few bites, I check his expression out of the corner of my eye; he looks confused... and hurt. Okay, friendship is definitely a no-no. One or both of us will be dead in less than two weeks. What's the point?

On the third day of training, I try my hand at things I haven't attempted yet: trap-setting, fire-starting, archery, and knife-throwing. The trainer at the trap-setting station is very patient with me, and after an hour or so, I have managed to make a passable imitation of her work. I finally sit back, with a tired, satisfied smile. But as I do, I notice that Aiden, who of course insists on working next to me whether I talk to him or not, has made a trap which surpasses mine by far. Irritated, I go to the fire-starting station, intending to beat him at that.

In short, it's a disaster. When I try to light my kindling, I only get sparks, and to make it worse, the arrows I attempt to release at the archery station just end up falling at my feet. Whatever. Aiden, who has followed me here, tries and fails too. I walk across the room to the knife-throwing station, where I am handed a short silver blade. The trainer tells me how to send it flying into the target, which is about ten feet away. However, he also gives me a warning: that I probably won't have enough time to get it right.

"There are only five minutes left until lunch," he says. "You don't want to miss your session with the Gamemakers."

"I know," I answer.

I wrap my fingers around the handle. It's cold to the touch. I take a deep , drawing on my reserves of inner strength, I take a step forward and throw the knife.

And...

It misses the target completely. Ugh!

Suddenly self-conscious, I glance around to see if anyone was watching. Most of the tributes, distracted by their growling stomachs, have already begun to file out of the Training Center, but a few have turned back to goggle at my pathetic efforts. I notice Aiden among these. He just looks a little sad, but the others seem fascinated by what a loser I am. Particularly irritating is the girl from District 2, who has paused, only a few feet away, to snicker behind her hands to the girl from District 1. I frown at them before turning my attention back to the selection of knives.

But, somehow, she gets there first.

"Oh! Clove!" says the knife-throwing trainer, pleased. Then his smile falters slightly. "Er, you do realize there's only three minutes left?" Ignoring him, Clove pushes past me, and snatches up the exact knife I was just about to take. She shoves me aside again in order to take her aim, and I stare at her in disbelief and annoyance.

"Problem, ginger?" says Clove sweetly over her shoulder.

Hmph.

"Of course not," I reply, equally sweetly. "Can't imagine why there would be." I plaster a falsely brilliant smile onto my face.

"Me neither," Clove says complacently.

Then she turns and throws the knife directly into the center of the target.

"Marvelous!" shouts the trainer joyously, clapping his hands together. And Clove, her trademark smirk already spreading across her face, makes it a point to knock into me as she saunters away.

With that, I'm the only tribute left in the Training Center. Even Aiden is gone now.

Bloody excellent.

As soon as Clove is gone, I turn back to the table full of weapons and pick one of them up.

"Honey, you only have thirty sec-" begins the trainer in his stupid accent.

Before he can finish his sentence, however, I've thrown my knife.

_Please._

The blade lodges itself firmly in the target, and the trainer turns to stare at me.

"I'm aware of how much time I have left, thank you very much," I say.

He makes some sort of choking sound in response.

I allow myself a smug grin before I walk away.

...

I should probably explain.

How does a plain, ordinary girl from District 5 possibly have skill with any sort of weapon? After all, the only things I know come from working at the printing press, or delivering messages. Reading, running, typesetting, folding, stacking, and so on and so forth. Certainly not throwing knives and having them actually go where I want them to go.

So how did I do that?

It's pretty simple. I have a very dramatic older sister who often deserves to have things thrown at her. Over the years, my ability to hit Farren with projectiles (I prefer writing implements) has improved as rapidly as her ability to get on my nerves. And, as I've just discovered, if you're irritated enough, throwing a knife isn't much different than throwing a pencil.

I just hope I'll be able to do it again.

...

I'm the last one into the lunchroom, but the tension in the environment is, even to me, evident at the first step inside. The Careers, of course, seem excited. But most of the rest of us just don't know what to expect.

We finish our lunch, and then sit there silently, occasionally stealing glimpses at each other but mostly staring at the floor. One by one, we're called into the room where the Gamemakes are waiting for us.

Boy, girl, boy, girl.

The boy from District 1 rolls his shoulders back before his session, and his counterpart expertly pulls her hair up into a short, bouncy ponytail before her own. Cato cracks his knuckles menacingly before he enters the room, while Clove gives the rest of us a sarcastic smile. Both tributes from 3 look absolutely terrified, but the pair from 4 looks as self-confident as the other Careers did before them.

And then they're calling Ryder.

As he gets up from his chair and crosses the room, I try to be less obvious about how I'm watching everyone who goes in. I guess it doesn't work, because he turns his head and looks directly at me.

After a tense second, I find myself mouthing, _good luck._

Ryder stiffens at first, clenching his fists. But then he relaxes enough to give me a tiny nod, just like he did on reaping day.

It's a start, I think. Then I sigh. Reaping day feels like it happened a lifetime ago.

Ryder strides into the room, and the door closes behind him. The seconds begin to tick by, aggravatingly slowly. I put my head in my hands and stare at the floor, trying to quell the nervousness steadily rising in my stomach.

Five minutes. Six minutes. Seven.

Despite my best efforts, I start to agonize.

What could Ryder possibly be doing that's taking so damn long?

Consumed by worry, I barely notice when Aiden slides onto the bench next to me.

"Hey, Fleta!" he whispers, a little too enthusiastically in my opinion.

I flinch. "What?"

"How are you?" he asks, flashing me a grin.

I scowl. "Um, other than the fact that I'm probably going to be dead a month from now, I'm just dandy."

"Great, me too!" says Aiden happily.

I blink at him, unnerved. I can't tell whether he's messing with me or seriously deranged.

"So what are you going to do?" he asks, raising his chin a little to indicate the door that leads to the Gamemakers.

"Aiden, I can't tell you _that_," I say, perplexed that he even asked. "That's the whole point of us going in individually."

"Right, right," he says immediately, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Yeah, sure..." I say uncertainly, looking away from him.

"Well, um..." I can tell he's casting around for another topic. "How do you like the Capitol?" he asks cheerfully. "Pretty nice, huh?"

I just stare at him. Under my gaze, his smile slowly fades.

"Fleta Riverwood," the woman calls. My name sounds silly in her Capitol accent.

"I have to go," I say shortly, and get up.

The woman holds the door open for me. Before I walk in, I turn slightly to glance back at my fellow tributes. Most of them don't return my gaze. But guess who does?

Yep.

"Fleta," says the woman, a little impatiently.

"I'm coming," I reply at once, quickly pulling myself together. Glad to break my eye contact with Aiden, I hurry through the door.

...

Having to go right after all the Careers is disheartening to say the least, but I draw courage from the fact that the tributes from District 3 had their turn before me, too. I can't imagine what they had to show the Gamemakers, since I don't see any technology in this room at all.

Keeping my back straight and my head high, I walk with as much dignity as possible to the center of the room, under the gazes of the Gamemakers. I reach the center of the room and stand still.

"Fleta Riverwood?" asks the one on the far right.

I nod.

After this exchange, silence falls. The Gamemakers stare at me, waiting for me to do something. But I just stand there, looking back at them.

At last, one makes a little _go-on_ motion with his hand. "We're ready when you are."

I let out a short breath. _All right,_ I think. _Let's do this._

I make my way over to the camouflage station first, since it's one of the few that I was pretty good at in training. I dip two fingers in each substance, and blend them together on my face and arms, as I was taught to do. After about three minutes, I hold up my arm to the wall and grin, satisfied with the results.

Then, getting a running start, I sprint across the floor and dive behind the table of knives. As fast as I can, I pick one up and hurl it across the room at a training dummy. _Please, please, please, _I silently beg. Luck is on my side; the knife lodges itself in the dummy's shoulder, which is the place I always aim for when throwing pencils at Farren. I glance over at the Gamemakers. A few are scribbling things on their clipboards, but most of them don't look very impressed. I guess, in the Hunger Games, a shoulder wound won't cut it.

I aim my next knife at the dummy's face. The blade slices its cheek open. Not good enough, not good enough! What's my strategy? Think, Fleta! Running and hiding, hiding and running. How am I supposed to showcase that? I try to keep from panicking, but it's difficult to keep calm with all of these eyes on me.

Not knowing what else to do, I run over to the dummy and take it off of its stand, laying it down on the floor. I arrange its limbs as though it was sleeping, and then I take off and hide, using the camouflage on my skin to blend into the walls. I then silently steal across the floor and, creeping up behind the dummy, I take out my knife and draw the blade across its throat.

Abruptly, one of the Gamemakers stands.

I freeze automatically. I'm crouching on the floor, clutching the dummy's shoulder, my knife still hovering at its neck. I watch the Gamemaker warily. He stares back at me, waiting. I wonder if I'm supposed to get some sort of finale in before he dismisses me. So I pick up the dummy and drag it across the floor, propping it up against a wall. Then, feeling like an idiot, I try to spar with it the way I've been sparring with the trainer these past few days. I punch and kick the dummy as many times as I can before it slides to the floor, beaten.

I win.

"That's enough, thank you," says the Gamemaker. "You may go."

I stand up straight and incline my head slightly, and then I walk quickly toward the exit, closing the door behind me without a sound.

...

_I should have shown them my hand-to-hand._

_I should have practiced my knife-throwing more... a lot more._

_I should have done this. I should have done that._

_I'm screwed._

...

Later, we all- tributes, mentors, stylists and escort- gather around the television set to learn what the Gamemakers thought of us.

High scores for the Careers from Districts 1, 2, and 4, obviously. The tributes from 3 both get... 3. Ouch. I wonder idly if the Gamemakers gave them that score just for laughs.

Ryder doesn't do much better. When his face appears on the screen, so does the number 4. Yikes. I'm afraid to look at him directly, but I can see out of the corner of my eye that he is clenching his fists so tightly that they're trembling.

I hold my breath as my picture comes up. Then the number 5 is flashing over my face.

I glance over at my team, and they look back at me. I have no idea what emotions show in my expression, but I know what we're all thinking: _Is this good or bad?_

Onsona barely has time to open her mouth before Ryder has risen to his feet, quite purple in the face, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Temper, temper.

The sudden sound seems to startle Codon out of his reverie, and he finally shows signs of consciousness, lurching to his feet and stumbling after his tribute. As he does so, we hear him wheezing, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "W-wait... boy... boy! Wh... what did you score? Was it low? Because we can work around that..."

The door closes behind him, leaving me with Onsona, Isabelline and the two stylists. We sit there for a second of awkward silence before Ryder's stylist gets up, gives us all a curt nod, and then follows Ryder and Codon out of the room.

At last, I'm alone with my team. I immediately turn to Onsona and ask, "What do you think?"

"Well done, Fleta," says my mentor, a little too calmly to be convincing.

"Are you sure?" I persist. "What about all the other tributes...?" My voice trails off as I realize that most everyone has scored a five. I'm average... again. I don't know why I'm surprised and saddened. I guess I was hoping that, for once, I'd stand out before I...

No. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die. Mentally chanting this mantra over and over, I force myself to watch the scores until the end.

A few tributes do stand out, both negatively and positively. Like I said, the tributes from District 3 each get 3, and poor Aiden scores a 3 as well. And yes, the Careers generally have the highest scores, but they've got competition; the boy from District 11 manages a 9. And surprisingly, even though she's the smallest of us all, his district partner pulls a 7. I make a mental note to keep an eye on them both. Next, the boy from 12 gets an 8, and I make the same note for him. But I'm not prepared for when his district partner shows up on the screen.

An eleven!

Onsona, the woman who never seems to be ruffled by anything, gasps.

As I turn to her, I'm sure I look as appalled as she feels. But before I can say anything, she says, "Don't worry, Fleta. This is a good thing." She sounds a little tense, but at least she has managed to smooth her expression.

"How is it a good thing?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "Onsona, she got an _eleven_... that's got to be some kind of record... I only got a five!"

"That girl is a target now," says my mentor firmly. "If you score too high or too low, the others will remember you, especially the Careers."

"Don't I want to be remembered?" I ask without thinking.

"_Running and hiding_, Fleta," Onsona says sternly.

"Oh, right." I glance down, considering. Then I look back up. "So I didn't do anything wrong?"

"No," Onsona assures me. "You did fine. I promise this won't be a problem." She looks down at me with an expression that's almost... grandmotherly. "Now head on up to bed. It's coaching day tomorrow, and you need your rest."

"Okay," I reply quietly. I stand up and begin to leave. But something stops me, and before I can change my mind, I turn back and say quickly, "Thanks, Onsona." Then I hurry away down the hallway, eager for sleep after what has been one of the longest days of my life.

...

When I wake up the next morning, I have another one of those moments where I think I'm back home in my own bed. Then I sit up, open my eyes and remember where I am. And I bury my face in my knees, trying and failing to push back the wave of homesickness that suddenly threatens to overwhelm me.

I miss my mother. I miss my father. I miss my little brother and I miss my older sister and I wish this was all a horrible nightmare and I would wake up in my room on a sunny day with nothing to worry about but school and work. All I want is my old life back. But that's the one thing I can't have.

Quickly wiping away the tears that appear without my permission, I shower and change my clothes. By the time I'm running a brush through my hair, I've managed to calm myself. But then I look down at the red strands which have fallen to the floor, and for some reason it makes me even sadder to look at them. They're just... curled there on the tiles, looking defeated and lonely. Afraid that I'll start crying again if I stay- this really isn't shaping up to be a strong day for me- I leave my quarters without another moment's hesitation and head down the hallway to the dining room.

It's just Onsona, sitting there alone.

"Hi," I say cautiously as I take a seat next to her.

"Here," Onsona says at once, sliding a plate of food in front of me. "Eat. I hope it's still warm."

I follow her instructions. My eggs and cheese are a little cooler than I'd like, but I don't complain. I down my glass of milk, wipe the resulting mustache away on my sleeve, and slam the cup decisively onto the table. Onsona looks a little sickened by my manners, but she doesn't say anything. "So," I say brightly, "What's the plan?"

"Today is an eight-hour workday," Onsona informs me. "Four of the hours will be spent with Isabelline to improve the way you hold yourself, and the other four will be with me, to practice your actual interview."

Well, it could be worse. I start to get up, but something occurs to me. "Where's Ryder?"

"With Codon," Onsona says. "Practicing his interview."

"Ooh," I say, wincing sympathetically. I can imagine how that's going.

"No, he'll be fine," Onsona says. "I think Codon has finally begun to pull himself together."

I resist the urge to say, "About time."

"We're about to pull you together, too," says Onsona, the hint of a smile beginning to spread across her face. "Just you wait."

...

We start with a brainstorming session.

"Have you given any thought as to what angle you'd like to try?" asks Onsona, pressing her fingertips together and looking at me.

"Only a little," I reply, slightly embarrassed at my lack of preparation. "I just know that... well... can we please not go with 'sexy'? I think I'd die right there on the stage." I smile shakily.

Onsona chuckles. "Sure thing." Then she sobers. "Well," she says practically, "Let's think about what's worked for tributes before."

We discuss the advantages and disadvantages of being eccentric, being funny, being mean, quiet, flirty.

"Flirty?" I blurt out, and start shaking my head vigorously. "No, no, no, Onsona, I don't think so. I'm not going to_ flirt_ with Caesar Flickerman. That's just... that's just wrong. That's almost as bad as sexy!" I'm laughing nervously now, and also a little fearfully since we're running out of options.

"It was just a suggestion," says Onsona with a tired sigh. She scrubs a weary hand over her face and begins to lower her head to the table. Then, suddenly, she straightens, her face lighting up. "Wait, I think I've got it!"

"What?" I ask.

She leans eagerly toward me, her eyes vivid with excitement. "Mysterious. Clever. Sly. Elusive. Like... like a fox."

I'm with her up until she says the word 'fox'. Then, I draw back sharply, an unpleasant memory invading my mind.

_When I was seven years old, a strange animal somehow made it through the fence that surrounds District 5, and made its way into the schoolyard, coincidentally at the same time that my classmates and I were let out for recess. Someone spotted it skulking about near a clump of trees that had been planted near the building, and yelled out for the rest of us. We all crowded around, staring at it. We had never seen its kind before, and didn't know what in the world it could be. The animal gazed back at us, and I remember that its left ear twitched._

"_What is it?" a boy asked._

"_I don't know," replied one of the girls. "Let's go ask Miss Smitherman." She and two of her friends ran off to do so, while the rest of us remained crouched at the edge of the schoolyard, watching the strange animal curiously._

"_It looks familiar," said Alice Pucklebere thoughtfully. "Don't you think?"_

"_Yeah, I know what it looks like," sniggered Beet Lewinsky. "It looks like that Riverwood girl."_

_There was a moment where everyone was startled into silence, quickly followed by a moment where everyone started to consider this thought._

"_Wait... it _does_ look like Fleta," realizes Alice._

"_Hey, Fleta!" someone informed me loudly. "That thing looks like you!"_

"_What is it called?" another voice asked. "What's its name?"_

_Just then, as was my luck, the girls came running back with the answer. Miss Smitherman had seen the animal across the yard and was now on her way to alert the Peacekeepers so that they could remove it. But before she left, she gave the girls the name of the animal. She was a teacher, after all._

"_Miss Smitherman says it's called a fox!" the girls chorused gleefully._

"_Haha, foxface!" shouted Beet at once. "Fleta's a foxface!"_

_The other children took up the chant as well. "Fleta's a foxface, Fleta's a foxface!"_

_Fleta's a foxface!_

_**Fleta's a foxface!**_

"No, I'm not," I gasp out, my voice strangled.

Onsona looks confused. "That's the point, Fleta. In real life, you're not really very mysterious, or sly, or elusive, even though I personally do think you're pretty clever. But the trick is to make the audience believe that you are those things, even if you aren't."

"That's fine, Onsona. Can we... can we just not compare me to a fox, please?" The heels of my hands are pressed to my eyes, and my voice is tiny. "I had a... bad experience as a kid."

"Oh," says Onsona, sounding surprised. "Of course."

So, fox references omitted, we continue with that plan. Onsona instructs me on how to answer questions slyly and mysteriously and all that. She plays the role of the interviewer, and when I don't answer a question the way she'd like me to, she gives me an idea of what response she'd prefer I perform.

"Well, Fleta, what do you do in your free time?" asks Onsona in her businesslike way.

"Read and run," I answer automatically.

Onsona looks at me, patience clearly beginning to wane.

"Oops," I say meekly.

"Be crafty. Be clever. Never give a straight answer," Onsona recites. She's repeated this phrase at least thirty times already.

"Right. I'm sorry," I say quickly. "One more time."

"All right, from the top," says Onsona with a sigh. "Well, Fleta, what do you do in your free time?"

"Hmm... Caesar, do you find puzzles as entertaining as I do?" I ask. Question for a question: this is one of Onsona's rules. "My favorite part is that moment where everything comes together. The moment where the answer shines clear, and I figure things out." I lift one corner of my mouth in a sly smirk, the way Onsona has been teaching me. "And I_ always_ figure things out."

"Much better," says Onsona approvingly. Then she manages a small smirk of her own. "I think you're ready."

...

After my four hours with Onsona, it's time for presentation with Isabelline. I find this much less interesting. She has me put on a dress and heels and walk around grinning like an idiot until my face hurts from overuse. Then she has me practice saying things like, "Oh, thank you!" and "What a pleasure!" and "It's an honor to be here!"

"Um, what? An 'honor to be here'?" I demand, finally letting my smile drop. "Isabelline, I don't think you understand. I'm here so that they can kill me."

"Well, don't think about that right now," Isabelline instructs me, her hands fluttering about aimlessly and her face reddening. "Think about... um, think about your appearance! Look, you're slouching again. Don't slouch. Stand straight. Your head is drawn up to the ceiling by a string. Right? Right." Her face relaxes into a too-white, fake smile.

With a long sigh, I straighten up.

The afternoon continues into evening with Isabelline studying my every move. I have to sit with my legs crossed only at the ankle, I have to sit with my hands in my lap, I have to stand with my hands at my sides, my hair must be on both sides of my shoulders at all times, I must not touch my face, and on and on and on. Finally it's time to eat and I can escape. I change back into my clothes and run barefoot back to the dinner table, where I shove everything in my mouth just because I can. Isabelline looks on with disapproval and I give her a sloppy, food-filled grin.

There's only sparse conversation that night. None of us really feel like talking, since we're all exhausted from the day. There's only one thing to do: sleep.

And how welcome it is.

**A/N: Okay, this has been on my to-do list for months and I am so sorry that I didn't get it up till now. School, Internet, family, all that jazz. Hopefully the better part of 5,000 words is enough to make up for the really long wait. Remember, I still have not abandoned this story. Thanks for reading and thanks for the reviews! They mean a lot. :)**


	10. Chapter 9: A Thousand Pairs of Eyes

**A/N: Sorry, laptop problems + school + life = short chapter. We're getting to the good stuff soon, I promise.**

My prep team wakes me at dawn the next day. Or, at least, they try to.

"Fleeeeet-aaaaa! Get up, sleepyheaaaaaad!"

I clamp my pillow down over my head in an attempt to block out Nicola's voice. "Mmrrrrph. No. Leemelone."

Like clockwork, my prep team yanks the blanket off of me, forcibly drags me out of bed, and marches me down the hall to the Remake Center. I blink blearily, and huge yawns nearly split my head in two. My protests— "Go 'way, s'too earleee"— fall upon deaf ears.

Then they make me stand in the middle of the room, and, as efficiently as if they were performing a chore, they then proceed to strip off all my clothes. See, I'm still far from used to being naked in front of other people, so it takes all of my willpower not to resist. And even when they're through, I can't help but squirm and wish I were somewhere else.

Nicola, Rinnie and Thead take me through the same process that they did before the opening ceremonies. This procedure consists of eradicating all flaws from my skin- including, but not limited to, concealing my acne and plucking my eyebrows- combing and adding product to my mass of red hair until it's sleek and shiny, and scrubbing every last molecule of dirt from my body.

Every. Last. One.

I grit my teeth and bear it.

The hours pass infuriatingly slowly, but I guess I doze off at some point because all at once Cabriole's there, his outfit a cacophony of crazy colors, and he's throwing his arms out wide and calling, "What's up, babe?"

"Heyyy!" Rinnie sings out as she snips the ends of my bangs.

"Um, I was talking to Fleta, hon-ayy," sneers Cabriole. "Rude much?"

Oh, fantastic, it's that kind of day. I glance up at Rinnie to gauge her reaction. As I expected, tears are welling up in her eyes and it's obvious that she's about to start weeping. There's only one thing I can do to spare her the humiliation, and that's to draw attention away from her.

"Hey, hon-ayy!" I say loudly, just as Rinnie lets out her first sob. I cock one hip in my best imitation of him. "What is _up, _Cabby? It feels like I haven't seen you in for-ev-arrrrr."

This is incredibly out-of-character and therefore indescribably mortifying for me, _especially_ since I still have no clothes on, but Nicola and Thead are laughing now and even Rinnie's cracking a smile, which I guess makes it worth it.

"Um, yeah," says Cabriole, not bothering to mask his confusion... or his condescension. "Sure." Then a childish grin spreads over his face. "Ohmygod, Fleta, you distracted me. But I have a surprise for you. Okay? Okay." He takes a deep breath and then says eagerly, "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Go on, go on! Close them!" He's bouncing on the balls of his feet now, and beaming at me.

"Okay," I say uncertainly, and do as he says.

The prep team goes to work again, parting my hair and brushing powder onto my face and instructing me to step delicately into a mass of silky cloth, most likely my dress. They pull it up to cover the rest of my body and then proceed to fuss over that. The process feels endless.

But I sense it when my prep team finally finishes. Their hands stop working, they make a few final adjustments on the dress, and they gently turn me to face what I guess is the mirror. I keep my eyes closed, though, just in case.

"Fleta?" prompts Cabriole.

I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Can I look now?"

I hear the smile in Cabriole's voice when he says yes.

So I do.

The burgundy lips of the girl before me curve slightly upward in an incredulous smile. Her hair is sleek and red and her skin is fair. Her amber eyes are highlighted by bold black liner and subtle blue shadow. She wears a strapless, dark blue gown, which, once it reaches her waist, falls straight to the floor. The garment somehow makes her seem taller and slimmer than she actually is. Finally, her birthday bracelet encircles her right wrist.

She's beautiful.

But she's not me.

**...**

I'm getting really tired of these interviews.

"Could I have Fleta Riverwood up here, please?"

Caesar Flickerman beams charmingly in my direction, somehow managing to look friendly even through the white makeup and neon blue hair. To applause, I stand and arrange the hem of my gown before sailing to the center of the stage just like my escort taught me. I seat myself in the chair next to Caesar's and cross my legs at the ankle in the ladylike manner of Isabelline.

"So, Fleta, what do you think of the Capitol?" asks Caesar, quite predictably. He's asked every tribute a variation of the same question. But I hide my contempt and reply, "It's a change, but I'll adjust. I always do."

Remembering Onsona's instructions, I smile craftily at Caesar, as if I know something he and the audience don't. Which I do. That this entire ordeal is ridiculous.

Caesar laughs. "Oh, do you?"

I chuckle. "I'll blend in with anything you throw at me, Caes." This earns me a cheer from the audience and a smile from my interviewer.

"Then you're like a chameleon, huh?" he jokes.

I pause. I feel, rather than see, a thousand pairs of eyes watching me. It's now or never. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and push aside my childhood traumas once and for all. When I open my eyes, I feel like a new person. So I have no trouble saying it:

"More like a fox."

The audience goes into an uproar at this, and I hear hoots and claps and even a few wolf-whistles. I think they've misinterpreted that last statement. But I have to play along, so I give them a sly wink.

Caesar laughs too, grinning at me to make sure I know that it's with me, not at me. Then he grows serious, and the audience quiets as well. His voice lowers. "So. Fleta Riverwood. Do you think you have what it takes to win the Hunger Games?"

I pause, and make it obvious that I'm scanning the line of tributes sitting behind me, from promiscuous Glimmer to good-humored Peeta. To be honest, most of them are clear threats. But instead of admitting it, I turn back to Caesar, smirk, and say, "What do _you_ think?"

The audience laughs.

"Whoops, looks like Cato isn't too happy with you," says Caesar. Resisting the urge to glance back and see for myself, I look instead to the screen behind Caesar's shoulder to see what he's referring to. Oh, great. The boy from District 2 looks really mad. In fact, he's staring at me with obvious rage. I feel a jolt of foreboding in my stomach, like I've just been marked down as the first to kill.

Outwardly, I shrug it off. "Let me worry about that in the arena, Caes."

Inwardly, I shudder.

"And what will your fellow tributes have to worry about, once the Games begin?" Caesar leans forward, gazing intently at me, and I see the audience do the same out of the corner of my eye. "What makes you a force to be reckoned with?"

For a moment, I don't say anything. Then I remember to pull one corner of my mouth up in a smirk.

"They won't be able to find me," I say confidently. "I have a tendency to disappear." But between the pressure of a nation's gaze and the possibility that I have only weeks to live**– **a possibility that has just been made very real– it's so hard to keep the act up. The smile**–** and the _façade_**–** drop from my face, and I lower my eyes to the floor, thinking not only of Ryder and my classmates, but also of my family. Mother. Father. Farren. Coy. When I speak, my voice is quiet. "All my life, I've been invisible."

It's absolutely silent in the City Circle.

Caesar studies my expression over folded hands, and I realize that he knows. He knows that this isn't part of my presented personality. I stare determinedly at the floor, waiting on tenterhooks for his reaction.

"Not to us," he says at last, and the audience rises in a roar, shouting their agreement to the skies.

The buzzer sounds. Caesar jumps to his feet and says above the din, "It looks like our time is up. Let's hear it for Fleta Riverwood from District 5!" As the loud applause fills the air, Caesar pulls me into a standing position and then into a quick hug. I've seen him do this for the other girl tributes, so it's not unusual.

But it _is_ unusual when Caesar subtly switches his microphone off and speaks directly into my ear. "I'm certain you'll have no trouble vanishing into that arena. But until then, honey, remember that it's all about you."

Caesar's words, the ones that weren't part of the show, echo in my mind as I make my way back to my seat. Does he say something like that to every tribute? Of course I can't be sure, but I don't think so. Which can only mean that…

He believes in me.

For the first time since the reaping, hope actually blooms inside of me, warming me all over. I have as much of a chance as the next person, don't I? I'm fast, I'm sensible, and I'm relatively clever. Why not? I think back to that pamphlet I found on the train. So many of those victors started out as underdogs. Kiece Conan kept mostly out of sight for her Games and only had to eliminate two people for her victory. It really only takes one kill to win, if you think about it. _It only takes one, if you play it right..._ I can't tie my smile down as the possibilities begin to open up in front of me. Maybe I can actually win these Games!

Maybe I can come home.


	11. Chapter 10: The Real Opponent Here

It's wonderful, this warm feeling of hope. And it stays with me for such a long time, too. Tribute after tribute after tribute comes up to speak, and I'm still sitting there trying to hide my smile. Eventually I give up trying to hide it, and instead, try to change it into something devious-looking. Maybe the audience will think I'm smirking at the other tributes because I'm already seeing all of the flaws in their strategies. Onsona would like that… even though that's not actually what I'm doing.

I really should be paying closer attention to my opponents, but for some reason, I find it really hard to focus. They all seem the same to me: fake-pretty, with plastered-on smiles and artificial laughter and sparkly stuff they'd probably never wear if given the choice. And even underneath their masks and their makeup, every tribute interviewed falls into one stereotype or the other. Either they're an unshakable, confident Career from an intensely proud family, or an underfed, chanceless kid from a sad little district on the outskirts of Panem.

Why am I only now seeing exactly how much influence physical appearance has over these Games? What you look like and how you're perceived can make you… or break you. For Glimmer, the girl from District 1, her appearance is making her; she's had the audience under her thumb from the get-go, simply because her stylist has decided to ramp up her sex appeal. In addition, Cato's bulk and the expression of raw anger on his face add greatly to Panem's view of him as a depraved killer. To put it simply, it works for him.

It works against some of the others, though. The girl from District 8—I think her name is Kiara—tries to act perky and sweet while adding just the right amount of ditzy, but the dark bags under her eyelids aren't fooling anybody. Those things detract from even the most genuine and whitest smile Kiara musters up.

In the same way, Blake's tough-girl façade _would_ be impressive… if it didn't completely fail to conceal how undeniably malnourished she is. The bones of her elbows and knees jut out, and her face isn't as filled-out as it could be. I realize that we are, all of us, just reinforcing the idea that the Careers surpass us in every way. I shake my head in irritation.

Even Aiden remains quiet, despite the flood of tactics that Caesar uses to try and pull him out of his shell. I know from personal experience that he's friendly and funny and smart, but up there onstage, he somehow manages to look sad and helpless. Pale and thin, he's dressed in muted colors, as though he means to fade into the wallpaper. I spend a minute or so staring at Aiden and wondering about the angle behind all of this. Is he trying to downplay himself so no one will target him? I can see the reasoning behind that plan, if that is in fact his plan, but it all seems sort of fruitless when you consider his cane. I want to grab him by the shoulders and scream at him, _Look at yourself, and listen to reason! They're going to come after you first, and you can't stop them!_

But, of course, I can't do that. So I just sit, and wait, and watch, and think back to the other interviews. Strong Careers. Weak non-Careers. There is no in-between.

At least, that's how it seems until Districts 11 and 12 have their turns.

The girl from District 11, the tiny one who pulled a 7, is one of the youngest, and definitely the smallest, of us all, and she's totally playing it up for pity. I mean, her stylist dressed her as a fairy. A _fairy._ Come on. Isn't that too transparent a strategy?

Apparently not. Like a crowd of lovesick puppies, the audience laps the girl's every word up. I can't stifle a groan.

Next up is the girl's district partner, a great hulking thing named Thresh. The exact opposite of the girl (I think her name was Rue), Thresh is tall, broad, muscular, and incredibly intimidating. Like Aiden, he doesn't say much to Caesar, but unlike Aiden, his silence comes across as threatening. He gives me the distinct impression that he could snap me over his knee if so inclined.

Next up is the girl from District 12. Her name is Katniss, and she spends most of the first part of the interview giggling about her outfit, of all things. I'm not sure what to think. If I'm not mistaken, this is the girl that got an _eleven_ in training. It would be so much more prudent for her to portray herself as fierce and dangerous, even if she's not! Is this bimbo act part of some elaborate scheme, or is she as stupid as she seems?

I get my answer soon enough.

"Let's go back, then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," says Caesar quietly.

I flash back to the reapings and remember that Katniss is here in the place of a little blonde girl.

"And you volunteered," prompts Caesar. "Can you tell us about her?"

The smile is gone from Katniss's face. She glances at the audience. "Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."

Dead silence.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?"

Katniss swallows. "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?" asks Caesar gently.

Something different, darker than anything we've seen from Katniss before, crosses her face. When she speaks, her voice is low, determined. Fitting of the girl she should be. "I swore I would."

Interesting.

The buzzer goes off. Caesar wraps up the interview, and Katniss shakes his hand. She walks back to her seat amid enthusiastic applause. My gaze lingers on her even after she sits down, and the gears in my brain begin to turn.

_Very_ interesting.

I turn my focus back the boy from District 12, Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. You know how I know that? I know that because he spends about a third of his interview comparing us all to bread. Really? _Really?_ I roll my eyes.

His attempts at humor get slightly less dire when he starts talking about the Capitol showers, joking about how treacherously luxurious they are. Peeta's efforts at likability, however, don't make up for the fact that this is the last interview, and my eyes are starting to glaze over. I can't help tuning out for a minute and letting my exhaustion claim me. But I'm quickly jolted back to reality by a roar of laughter. I look up. Peeta and Caesar are invading each other's personal space, sniffing each other thoroughly.

Um… I have no idea how this happened, much less why the audience finds it so hilarious. But okay. Whatever works for you, Peeta Mellark. Whatever works for you.

Laughing, Caesar and Peeta lean back in their seats.

"So, Peeta, do you have a girlfriend back home?" asks Caesar with a smile.

Peeta hesitates, and then shakes his head. Anyone with eyes can see that he's lying, which makes me narrow mine. Unless he's as stupid as Katniss was pretending to be, this is intentional. I watch him closely.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl," says Caesar, picking up, as any rational person would, on his insincerity. I didn't think it was possible, but Caesar's grin widens. "Come on, what's her name?"

Peeta sighs, then admits, "Well, there is this one girl." He can't help but smile a little. "I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember." Then he sobers again. "But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

The crowd is eating this up. Judging by their understanding whimpers, they're all thinking, _poor Peeta!_ I shake my head, wishing I could affect people like that.

"She have another fellow?" asks Caesar sympathetically.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her."

"So here's what you do," Caesar encourages him. "You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"

"I don't think it's going to work out," says Peeta miserably. "Winning… won't help in my case."

"Why ever not?" asks Caesar curiously.

"Because…" Peeta's face is bright red. "Because… she came here with me."

_Holy crap._

Like me, the audience is wide-eyed, shocked into silence, trying to process what Peeta has said. The cameras quickly turn to focus on Katniss. Her face fills the screens that surround the City Circle. She glances around, and then stares at the floor, her mouth a tight line.

Hmm. I wonder what she's thinking.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar sadly. The audience agrees with him.

"It's not good," says Peeta.

Understatement of the century.

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. Yes, I know he's trying to empathize, but that came out sounding a lot creepier than he meant it to. I scoot my chair away from him a little bit as he asks, "She didn't know?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now."

I think the entire audience is looking at Katniss at this point. Oh my goodness, look how badly she's blushing. I can't help but grin.

Caesar addresses the audience. "Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?"

They send up a huge cheer. Even_ I'm_ tempted to say yes.

"Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent," says Caesar. The crowd lets out a collective sigh of regret. Caesar gives them a shrug that clearly says _oh, well _before turning to Peeta. He shakes his hand. "Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

The crowd goes insane.

As my gaze travels over them—every one of them, every single one of them, is applauding and screaming for the tributes of District 12— I realize what Peeta has done. My stomach drops, my heart skips a beat, and I want to hit myself in the forehead. Why am I only figuring this out now? This is just like when they held hands in the opening ceremony! By subtly charming the Capitol into focusing on them, District 12 is creating a reputation for themselves… thereby obliterating everyone else's chances of winning.

So evil. So _brilliant_.

That should have been my strategy!

By the time I've worked through the emotions of shock, anger, jealousy, and frustration, we're standing up for the anthem.

I look up to see that a shot of Katniss and Peeta, standing a few feet apart, fills every screen. A new wave of irritation roils through me, and along with it, a surge of determination.

I knew from the beginning that I should have kept an eye on them. I've been neglecting that goal.

Not anymore.

I stare at the screen furiously. _You'd better watch out._

It's absolutely perfect. The physical appearance factor completely dovetails with my plan. I'm tiny and overlookable. Katniss and Peeta will be concentrating on overcoming the big, strong Careers, like Cato and Clove. So anything I do… they'll never see coming.

No one will know that I'm the real opponent here.

At least, not until it's too late.

**OOC: See what I did there? ;) Thanks for the reviews, guys!**


	12. Chapter 11: Too Much

They're lying to us. _They're lying to everyone._

These two sentences swell to fill my mind, completely blocking out all logic, all reason, as I pace the length of my quarters again and again and again. I'm ranting to Onsona, I know that much, but I don't even register half the words I'm saying.

"No, Fleta," says Onsona in a practical voice.

"But I have it all figured out!" I hear myself protest. Finally coming back to reality, I turn sharply toward where she's sitting to make sure she's listening to me. "I'm not going to go _looking _for them, Onsona, I'm not stupid-"

"Running and hiding, Fleta," says Onsona, in that same maddeningly calm voice.

"Aren't you _angry_?" I demand. "Don't you want to get back at them?"

"Calm down, Fleta."

"I will not calm down!" I say fiercely. "They've been planning this from the minute they shook hands on that stage. It's a complete sham! And if no one else is able to see through it, if no one else intends to _do something _about it, then I will!"

"I saw through it," says Onsona quietly.

"Bullshit!" I snap at once.

Ignoring this outburst, Onsona continues to speak.

"Haymitch's line of reasoning has been clear to me since day on," she says. "The opening ceremonies of this year mark the first time in the history of the Hunger Games that district partners have held hands. At first sight, I knew that it was no mere coincidence."

I've stopped in the middle of the room, but I'm still seething, and so I say nothing. I don't even bother to ask who Haymitch is.

"They're calling them 'the star-crossed lovers of District Twelve' now," muses Onsona, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "I have to hand it to Haymitch. It's very clever, the way he's gone about this. But I can't help but wonder…" Her voice trails off. Apparently she's gotten lost in her own speculations.

I wait for a couple of minutes, and then give a pointedly irritated sigh. It has the desired effect; Onsona snaps back to awareness.

"Well," she says through a sigh, "That's that."

I blink in surprise, and then sink back onto my bed. The anger slowly begins to drain out of me, leaving only exhaustion. "_What's_ that?" I ask wearily, throwing an arm across my eyes.

"That's how these Games are going to play out," she says matter-of-factly.

I sit up very quickly and turn my head toward her so quickly that my neck cracks. "What? You… you can't mean that we're giving up?" I try to say it furiously, but it's too late; my voice has lost its edge of anger, and even to my own ears, I sound terrified.

Onsona looks at me then, and her expression softens. "No, Fleta. No, of course we're not giving up." Then that businesslike efficiency returns to her face and her voice, and she stands. "We are most certainly not going to lie down and be trampled upon just because Haymitch has decided to up the ante." Now she's the one pacing. "This new development simply means that we must make a few slight alterations to our plan. For instance, because we two seem to be the only ones in all of Panem who have seen through District Twelve's ploy—" —for the first time, her tone betrays her annoyance— "—it is imperative that we keep our knowledge a secret."

"Okay," I say cautiously. "And how do we do that?"

Onsona sighs. "It isn't difficult, Fleta," she says, sounding slightly pained at how slow I am."Just pretend that you believe they're in love."

I pause for a moment, considering. I really wish I could put them in their place. They're drawing so much attention to themselves, and I, for one, think it's completely unfair. But then again, who ever said that the Hunger Games were fair? Besides, if I do anything now, I'll be noticed for sure. And that's exactly the opposite of what I want.

"Fine," I say at last. "I'll play along."

"Good girl," says Onsona curtly.

…

Our meal that night is the quietest and most awkward one yet. Even though we all know that it'll be our last dinner together, which should at least have a little bit of an effect on us, nobody speaks. Nobody smiles. Nobody even makes eye contact. We just pick at the food on our plates. Each clink of a fork against a dish echoes in the silence, and every cough, every sigh, every clearing of the throat seems loud.

I know why it's like this. None of us want to discuss the recent development of the star-crossed "lovers" from District 12. No one wants to make it a reality by talking about it. No one wants to acknowledge how the pair of them have stolen and secured the spotlight. How hard Ryder and I will have to work to reclaim any of that attention for ourselves. How far our chances of survival have fallen. It's too painful.

So we sit.

And we eat.

At least the food is good.

…

We go to the sitting room after dinner.

Actually, "go" might not be the right word, because it suggests that we actively decided to do so. It's more like we all got up from the table after dinner, and our feet just happened to take us here. We file into the sitting room as if in a daze, and everyone quietly settles into their respective places around the television.

I curl up in a corner of the couch, pull up my knees to my chest, and try to make myself as small as possible. Isabelline, who sits next to me, pats my shoulder absentmindedly as the replay begins.

Watching the interviews for the second time tonight should be boring. I mean, I just sat through them a couple hours ago. My eyes should be glazing over.

But they're not.

I watch the screen with wide eyes, even leaning forward a little to get a better look, because, to me, the replay feels like a second chance. It's an opportunity to see clearly what I missed the first time, to observe that which glossed over me before. It's just little things, like the way that Glimmer subtly sticks out her chest as she's talking to Caesar. Or the way that even Clove's smile is cold and cruel. Or the way that, even when he's seated, Cato's murderous eyes dart around the room as though he's looking for his next target.

I try to suppress my shudder.

I'm very glad when Caesar calls up the girl from District 3, mostly because it means that District 2's turn is over, but also because it means that I get to start re-analyzing the tributes who didn't make much of an impression on me before.

For example, it's only now that I can see that the girl from 3 is trying to play up her intelligence, but the boy from 3 doesn't seem to be playing up anything. I observe that the girl from 4 is aloof, while her distract partner is mysterious. She gives monosyllabic answers to all of the questions, and he evades the questions entirely. Clearly, this technique is meant to intrigue Panem and keep both Caesar and the audience guessing. But I don't have time to accurately judge the effectiveness of District 4's plan, because after these enigmatic Careers take their seats, we're on to us.

At first, all is going well for me. I'm following Onsona's orders exactly, being sly and elusive. But then I drop the façade, and have that moment of vulnerability. For a fleeting second, I really am weak. However, luckily for me, the audience receives it well, giving me thunderous applause. In fact, they're going so crazy that Caesar's whisper to me isn't noticeable unless you're specifically looking for it.

Which I am.

The Fleta on the TV sits down, a real smile shining on her face. The me in the sitting room glances over at Onsona, who gives me a nod of approval.

Then it's time for Ryder. Having lost my focus momentarily due to Caesar's words of encouragement, I didn't pay proper attention to Ryder the first time around. So I lean in a little bit, not wanting to miss a word.

Ryder plays it cocky, which is no surprise to me. He talks about how the girls at home used to swoon over him, how they often asked to touch his muscles, how he used to charm them completely with just a smile or a wink or a flex of the bicep.

It occurs to me that Caesar could have easily asked Ryder whether I was ever one of those girls. But he didn't. _Thank you, Caesar,_ I think.

On TV, Ryder talks a little more about himself, and about how winning these Games, like winning those girls, will be a piece of cake. Caesar and the audience smile at this, and give him a fair amount of applause as he returns to his seat. Not too shabby. I chance a glance at Ryder, but he is very pointedly staring at the television screen, not looking at any of us.

So I turn my attention back to it.

I take mental notes as the districts fly by for the second time tonight. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. There's Blake, who is trying to be strong despite her obvious weakness, and Aiden, who isn't trying to be strong at all. The sight fills me with the same anger that it did a couple of hours ago. He's in these Games now, for better or for worse. Why won't he be a player?

Clenching my fists so hard that my fingernails dig into my palms, I bury half of my face in my knees, leaving only my eyes exposed, and watch District 11 that way. Fortunately for me, Tiny Rue and gigantic Thresh prove to be more interesting than annoying the first time around, and my irritation at Aiden almost completely fades away.

But then it's time for District 12.

I watch Katniss Everdeen's face intently all throughout her interview, trying to work out what her deal is. She thinks the most impressive thing about the Capitol is the lamb stew. She is content to do nothing more than spin around in sparkly dresses. But she loves her little sister enough to give up her life for her. Real or not real?

I'm still trying to figure the girl on fire out when Peeta makes his way to the stage. He and Caesar do their whole banter thing and talk about bread and showers and equally mundane topics. I'm holding my breath, waiting for the important part, and so is everyone else in the room.

"Because… because… she came here with me," stammers Peeta at last, and I immediately focus on Katniss, as does the rest of Panem onscreen. There's the surprise, the protest, the blush, just like before. But now that I know that it's all a charade, I don't have the slightest idea what those things mean. The surprise could easily be faked, but the other emotions confuse me. If she likes him back, why the protest? But if she doesn't like him back, why the blush?

Ugh!

I lean back into the couch as the anthem begins to play, signaling the end of the show. I sit up when it finishes, looking over at my team and Ryder's, intending to begin a strongly worded conversation about some of those interviews.

But I stop short when I see the looks on their faces.

And then I remember.

The interviews are the last hurdle we had to jump.

The Hunger Games begin tomorrow.

I stand up, take a deep breath, and look at Ryder. He's staring steadily back at me. He takes a deep breath, too, and then gives me a tiny nod, just like after the reaping.

I didn't know what it meant back then, and I'm not sure that I do now, but I give him a tiny nod back anyway. Ryder looks at me for a second more, and then turns on his heel and leaves the room, his stylist and mentor hurrying along in his wake.

I watch him go.

Ryder Anonian may be a senseless jerk, prone to anger outbursts and narcissism, but he's still my classmate, not to mention the only other teenager from District 5. And there's something, however small, in that.

Isabelline is on her feet next, pulling me into a tight hug. "Oh, Fleta, I hate this part. It's always so hard to say goodbye," she says into my shoulder. "Good luck, sweetie. You're going to need it." She gives me a squeeze. "I really hope you don't die!" And then Isabelline holds me out at arm's length, gives me a teary smile, and turns and hurries after Ryder to say goodbye to him, too.

Well, that last part was certainly encouraging.

I turn to Onsona, who is the only person left in the room, hoping that she'll be more adept at making me feel better. But she just crosses her arms over her chest and regards me as sternly as ever.

And that's too much.

My bottom lip trembles, and tears prick at my eyes. "Onsona, I might die tomorrow," I say in a voice that starts out steady, but wavers toward the end. "Please be nicer than Isabelline. Please don't give me a goodbye like hers." My voice breaks.

And, so suddenly that I'm not sure how it happened, I'm wrapped securely in Onsona's arms. The tears begin to slide down my face, released by the comfort I find in the gesture. She steps away from me and smoothes my messed-up hair down. Then she takes me by the shoulders.

"Listen to me," says Onsona firmly. "You are clever. You are brave. You are fast and you are strong. I_ know _that you have what it takes to win these Games. Just stick to evasion when you can, and you will be just fine." Her grip on my shoulders tightens. "I believe in you. Now you just have to believe in yourself."

"Thank you, Onsona," I whisper, wiping the last of my tears away. I manage a smile.

"Don't thank me yet," she says, but she's smiling back. She turns me around so that I'm facing the exit, and then she lets go of my shoulders and gives me a little push. "Now go. You need your rest."

I take the necessary step forward, but before I go any further, I turn around again. "Wait," I say. It doesn't feel like I'm talking. The words seem to be spilling out of their own accord. "I have one more question."

Onsona says nothing, only raises an eyebrow.

"There was a pamphlet," I hear myself say. "In my quarters on the train. It had a list of all the victors from previous years, and how they won." My eyes search my mentor's, looking for the truth. "Did you put that there?"

Immediately, Onsona nods. Then she studies my expression shrewdly. "How did you know?"

I shrug, because I honestly don't know. I just felt compelled to ask. "I guess you could call it instinct." I look up at her, waiting for more explanation.

Onsona smiles and ruffles my hair with one hand. Besides the recent hug, it's the most affection she's shown me since we met. "It's a long story, Fleta, and anyway, it's probably best that I don't tell it." Her eyes flicker discreetly up and around the room, and I figure that this means that the Capitol might be listening.

I debate pushing for more information, but finally I just nod, turn around, and walk toward the door.

"Good night, Fleta," says Onsona from behind me.

I pause.

"Good night, Onsona," I reply.

And I leave the room.

For the record, it's much easier to say good night than it is to say goodbye.

…

Tossing and turning in my bed, I wonder if any tribute has ever gotten a good night's sleep on the eve of the Games.

I seriously doubt it.

After a few minutes- or it might have been a few hours- I let out a loud groan and throw my blankets aside. I sigh with relief as my bare feet hit the cold floor. It's refreshing after the uncomfortable warmth of my bed. I quietly cross the room to my people-watching window, sit on the cushioned seat, and look outside. The bright lights of the city are still shining, of course. The Capitol never sleeps. I think there are parties going on down in the street. Costumes and dancing and laughing. Of course, they're celebrating as I sit here waiting to die. How could I expect anything less?

I sigh and collapse on the window seat, lying down completely. Maybe I'll just sleep here. I can't open the window and get fresh air, but I can do the next best thing- lie next to it all night and draw relief from the cold glass.

Yes, I think I'll do that.

_Maybe this will help me relax,_ I think as I stretch out on the cushion. _Maybe I'll be able to fall asleep._ I'm smiling, though, because of course that will never happen.

But you know what the funny thing is?

It does.

**A/N:** **Almost there! One more chapter until the Games start! (And I promise it won't be as long in coming as this one was.) Thank you all for your patience, as well as your reviews. I've read and smiled at them all. :)**


	13. Chapter 12: The Games

I wake up early the next morning, much earlier than I expected. Judging by the color of the inside of my eyelids, the sun isn't even up yet. I stretch my arms and legs out as far as I can in the limited space I have, but I don't open my eyes. I don't want to be up and moving when my stylist comes in to pick me up. That will only lead to questions about how did I sleep and am I nervous and why in the world am I awake, I should be getting as much rest as I can, blah blah blah. I really don't feel like having a conversation at the moment, so I roll over on my side and pretend I'm still asleep.

I don't go back to sleep, but I do lie there with my eyes closed, cherishing the silence. This hour will be the last real rest I'll be able to get for a while. I know that when Cabriole comes, we're going to have to move quickly; the Games start at ten o'clock on the dot, and all of the tributes have to be on the roof and ready to go at their assigned times. No exceptions, no excuses.

Since they're on the top floor, the tributes from 12 will go first, followed by the tributes from 11, and then 10 and 9 and so on, so I have a while to wait. I try to spend the time planning out exactly what I will do when the gong goes off, but the faces of my family end up wandering into my mind unbidden, and I get distracted. I start to think about what will happen if- no, not if, but when; nobody makes it out of these Games unhurt- _when _I get injured in the arena.

Farren will scream, I'm sure of it. She'll scream, and then she's going to start weeping like mad, because that's just the kind of person my sister is: a drama queen, right up to the end. My mother is too proud to let herself cry, but she'll clutch my father's hand like a lifeline, so hard that her knuckles will turn white. Even though I obviously won't be able to hear her, she'll be murmuring directions under her breath, telling me what to do, how to survive. My father will sit there, unmoving, staring at the screen without blinking. He won't say anything, but he'll be willing me to get back on my feet as soon as I can.

And Coy… oh, Coy. I know exactly what Coy will do.

My little brother is going to close his eyes because I told him to.

And now, even though my own eyes are still stubbornly closed, tears are streaming down my face. I try desperately to imagine something else, if only to diverge this thoroughly upsetting line of thinking, but I can't, and now I'm morbidly wondering what they'll do if I die, and even the idea of them grieving over me is threatening to break something inside of me, and this is why I shouldn't be allowed to be alone with my thoughts, and I can't stand it-

The door bangs open.

"Heyyyy! Fleta freakin' Riverwood!"

Just in time.

Subtly wiping my tears away on my sleeve, I pretend to stir with a low groan.

"Cabriole?" I ask groggily, rubbing one eye.

"None other. Good morning, sunshine!" says Cabriole in a singsong voice as I sit up and blink blearily.

Cabriole, who has been throwing open the curtains to let some light in, pauses in the middle of doing so and looks over at me.

"Wow. Babe. Your hair."

"I know, I know," I mutter as I get unsteadily to my feet. "I have really bad bedhead."

"No! It's gorgeous!" squeals Cabriole, a wide smile spreading over his face.

"What?" I gasp as he drops the curtains and comes over to me. Still beaming, Cabriole starts inspecting my hair closely. "God, I don't even want to, like, take a comb to it or anything! This is amazing!"

"Yeah. Amazing," I say, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the way he's picking through my hair like it's a wad of cash or something equally valuable. "Um, can we go now?"

"Only if you promise me you'll get bedhead in the arena," says Cabriole with a giggle, stepping away from my hair.

"Um… yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"Oh, goody!" says Cabriole, clapping his hands together in delight.

Capitol people are so weird.

I make him turn around as I change into the shift he gives me. I grab something from my nightstand and put it into the pocket of my shift. Then the two of us hurry up to the roof of the Training Center, nearly sprinting to make up for the time Cabriole wasted gushing about my hair. _At least he didn't ask if I'd been crying,_ I think as Cabriole pushes the door to the roof open.

We're not a second too soon. The hovercraft is materializing above us. Cabriole gives me a push toward it. "Go, babe."

So I do, running forward and making a beeline for the ladder that descends to meet me. I step up onto the lowest rung, grabbing a higher one with my hands- and that's the last thing I do. A current of energy renders me unable to move as the ladder takes me up into the hovercraft. I wonder briefly if the Gamemakers force tributes to go into hovercrafts now to remind us of what will collect our cold corpses if we die.

My heart is beating double-time at this point, no doubt the result of some deep-rooted instinct for survival, and it only speeds up when a man comes up to me with a needle in hand. Without a single word of explanation, he rolls up my sleeve, puts the needle in my forearm, and injects me with something. Pain laces through my arm, and even though I'm still frozen, my eyes widen. _What the hell? _I scream in my head as he walks away. _What did you just do to me?_

The ladder lets me go and drops down to get Cabriole, but my heart is still pounding crazily in my chest. I'm too afraid to scream out loud, so I just stare at the little lump on my forearm in fear until my stylist enters the hovercraft. I hurry over to him immediately.

"They put a needle in my arm," I whisper, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

"It was just your tracker," Cabriole responds, also in a whisper. "They just want to know where you are in the arena."

"Oh," I say, the panic instantly ebbing. "That's all?"

"That's all," Cabriole reassures me as an Avox girl enters the room. We both look at her. She makes a _follow-me_ motion, turns, and walks down a hallway. We do, and come to a room with a long table full of food. The Capitol has breakfast for us. How incredibly thoughtful. I sit down to eat the meal, trying not to think about how it could be my last.

Finally, we arrive at the arena, and the ladder takes us down into the catacombs beneath it. Cabriole and I are directed down a long passageway with flickering lights. The hovercraft leaves, and, left with little else to do, we walk down the passageway. After an indeterminable about of time, we arrive at my designated Launch Room.

Thankfully, Cabriole hasn't said much since our exchange on the hovercraft. Even now, he's silent as the grave as he takes his seat on the sofa that sits in one corner of the room. I walk into the bathroom, close the door behind me, and take a long shower. I savor the smell of the shampoo, the feel of the hot water running down my back, the simple pleasure of stacking all of my hair on top of my head and then letting it fall again. Then I step out of the shower. The warm air starts up as my feet touch the mat, and soon my skin is perfectly dry again. I press my hand to the familiar box, and it untangles, parts, dries, and combs my hair. I smile. _Sorry, Cabriole. No more bedhead for me._

I gather my hair back into a high ponytail, brush my teeth, and pull my shift back on. Then I walk back out into the main part of the Launch Room, where Cabriole's waiting with my clothes. He lets out a sad sigh at the sight of my hair, but appears to shrug it off, and helps me get dressed in the outfit I'll be wearing throughout the Games: undergarments, a pale green blouse, light brown pants, a belt, socks, boots, and a black jacket.

But of course, there's one more thing to worry about: the finishing touch. I walk over to where my shift lies on the floor, and retrieve the object that I stashed in its pocket before we left the Training Center.

My birthday bracelet.

I secure my district token around my wrist. As always, it fits perfectly. But it's shining silver, and I can't have that in the arena. It could prove a problem, especially since I'll be trying to stay out of sight through most of the Games. I pull the sleeve of my jacket over my bracelet, effectively concealing it.

I feel like a new person as I test out the outfit. The old Fleta Riverwood, the messenger girl from District 5, would never get to wear clothes like these, sleek and new and absolutely perfect for running.

Then again, I realize as I sink down onto the couch next to Cabriole, the old Fleta Riverwood would never be in a position like this. These clothes are perfect for running because I'm going to have to run. For my life.

I pull up my knees to my chest and bury my face in them, the position of anxiety in which I have so often found myself since the reaping. Fitting, since I've had a lot of reasons to be anxious since then.

I can feel Cabriole looking at me in concern, but I ignore him and concentrate on breathing deeply.

Minutes pass.

"I have a headache," I say at one point.

Without a word, Cabriole gets up from the sofa and brings me a glass of water. I drink about half of it and then set it down on the low table in front of us. I have the completely inappropriate urge to smile as I look at the glass of water. Is it half full or half empty?

I bury my face in my knees again, and, after a moment, Cabriole reaches out and hesitantly begins to rub my back in a circular motion. The gesture is clearly meant to be comforting, and I guess it sort of is, but it's also a little awkward, and I don't really acknowledge it. I don't surface from the safety of my knees until a female voice is calmly telling us it's time to prepare for launch.

This doesn't seem real.

And yet I know it is.

I try to get to my feet, to walk across the room and do as the voice says. But the old Fleta cannot bring herself to get up off of the sofa.

"Come on, Fleta," says Cabriole in a shaky voice. It's the first thing he's said since the hovercraft.

I know I have to go.

So I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to summon the new Fleta. I try to be that person I was on the chariot in the opening ceremonies, that I was in my private session with the Gamemakers, that I was in the interview with Caesar.

I try to be the fox.

And that's how I find the strength to stand.

I open my eyes, rise, and walk over to the circular metal plate, Cabriole following along behind me. I stand in the very center of the metal plate, clench my fists, and wait.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still scared, nearly out of my wits. My insanely fast heartbeat is evidence of that. But I'm not so scared that I'm immobile anymore, if that makes sense. I'm not the old Fleta. I'm not the terrified girl who couldn't leave the couch.

Yes, I'm still Fleta Riverwood. But I'm the fox, too, and nothing else has to matter.

"Cabriole," I say.

He looks up.

"In case… something happens… please tell everyone I said thank you," I say, and I'm proud of the fact that my voice doesn't tremble.

My stylist nods. "I will." Then, as if he can't hold it back any longer, he rushes forward and gives me a bone-crushing hug. "Good luck in the arena, Fleta," he says as he draws back, his voice thick with tears. "I know you'll be amazing. You always were."

I know that saying anything now will just revert me to the old Fleta, and I'll probably break down. So I just smile at him.

And then a glass cylinder is lowering down around me. I take a deep, slow breath, willing my heart to stop racing, and unclench my fists. The cylinder starts moving upward. I'm in pitch-black darkness for a few seconds, and then I'm brought out of the cylinder and into bright sunlight.

I try to blink the light away, but it has blinded me temporarily. All I know is that there's a wind blowing all around me, and a crisp, fresh scent in the air that I can't quite identify.

Then there's one more thing: the voice of Claudius Templesmith.

It surrounds me, surrounds all of us, booming out so loudly that the metal plate under my feet begins to shake.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

…

As soon as my eyes adjust to the light, I begin scanning the arena, trying to take in as much as I can, as quickly as I can. Okay, Cornucopia full of incredibly useful supplies in the middle. Helpful supplies are strewn about on the ground around the Cornucopia, decent supplies are farther away from the Cornucopia, and not-so-great supplies lie a few feet from my metal plate.

We're on a flat plain. The sun's at my back, which is helpful, vision-wise. There's a lake to my left, and some trees to my right. I glance behind me. There's a drop-off, a fairly steep slope of dirt leading to an enormous field of tall grasses at the bottom. I turn back toward the Cornucopia and glance around at the ring of tributes, trying to find potential threats. And by potential threats, I mean District 2. It doesn't take me long to locate Cato, who is six tributes to my left, and Clove, who is three tributes to my right.

My thoughts race. Since, like many others, I'll be heading for the forest, I'll have to maneuver my way around the bloodbath in general. If they don't go for the Cornucopia, the tributes around me will probably head for the forest, which means they'll be running to the right. I could run with them, and get lost in the crowd- hopefully, the Careers will take them out and not me- or I could run to the left. Most tributes won't be running there, which gives me a clear path to the forest as long as no Careers target me, but on the other hand, if I'm confronted, I'll be dead for sure.

Having made my decision, I quickly look down at the supplies on the ground to try and figure out which ones would be best for me to pick up on my way to the forest. I can't take too many, or they'll slow me down.

The minute's almost up. I can feel it.

So I tighten my ponytail and prepare to move.

The gong rings out, and all hell breaks loose. Some tributes head for the Cornucopia, others for the supplies, and still others for the woods. I'm running through it all, sliding past people rather than shoving them out of my way, willing everyone to ignore me. I snatch up what's convenient, not noticing what I've grabbed, just stuffing my pickings in my sleeves and my pockets without looking at them. I don't grab much, since I only go for the supplies that I know I won't have to fight for, but at least it's something.

I'm almost there. Almost safe.

But then I trip.

As my hands hit the ground, I let out a sharp, involuntary squeal. I can hear it even above all the commotion, and I don't even have to look around to know that, thanks to my complete and utter _clumsiness_, I've been spotted.

My thoughts are nothing more than a constant stream of curse words as I scramble to my feet. I try to start running again, but from behind me, someone screams my name.

"FLETA!"

Automatically, I turn toward the source of the voice. There's Aiden, limping toward me- I guess they let him keep his cane- and looking absolutely horrified. I blink in shock- what the hell does he think he's doing?- and then whirl around again, only to find a club right in front of me, a cloud of dirt settling around it. I look up, and can't hold back a gasp. Holding the end of this club is the boy from District 4. Baring his teeth at me, he raises his weapon to strike a second time.

But then a full container of water comes flying in out of nowhere and hits the boy in the side of the head. It throws his aim off just enough so that the club crashes into the ground next to me. Not knowing what else to do, I step on the club so that the boy from District 4 can't pick it up again. Then I look around for my savior, expecting to see Aiden.

But no, he's about four yards too far to the right to have thrown it.

"Run, Fleta!" he yells.

But I don't. I just stand there, staring in shock at the person who actually threw the water bottle. The person who just saved my life.

Ryder Anonian.

The Games have barely started and he's already in bad shape. A bruise is forming over his eye, there's dirt all over his front from where I guess he fell down, and, worst of all, there's a gaping wound in his stomach that makes tears come to my eyes. But Ryder's not crying. He's not even trying to stop the flow of blood. All he does is look at me… and give me a tiny nod.

"Ryder, I-"

Almost everything inside me is telling me to go and help him. To fight for him. To save him. I take a step forward, and Ryder starts shaking his head vigorously.

"Run, Fleta," Ryder says in a hoarse voice. "Run!"

And after what he has just done to make my escape possible, how can I do anything else?

So, hating myself every step of the way, I turn and I do as my district partner says. I sprint away from the bloodbath and head into the forest, taking cover behind a tree. For one second, I look back. The boy from District 4 has his club in his hands again, and is striding purposefully toward Ryder, who is wounded and unarmed and doomed. Ryder doesn't even try to defend himself. All he does is brace himself for the blow.

The boy from District 4 raises his club high above his head.

And I can't watch anymore.

So I turn, and I run, faster than I've ever run before, further and deeper into the forest than I had planned, wanting nothing more than to get away from that horrible scene, to get away from everything.

But of course, I can't. I can't even get away from the image of Ryder in my mind, weak and wounded and broken, telling me to run.

And all I can think, every time one of my feet hits the ground, is _why – me – why – me – why – me?_


	14. Chapter 13: The Darkness I Depend On

The screaming.

I'm running my fastest and I can still hear the screaming.

Maybe it's me.

…

I run until my legs give out. When I can no longer ignore how my thighs and calves cry out for release, I come to a stop. The forest around me is silent, save for my labored breathing. My legs quiver like jelly; it's strange to stand still after sprinting for so long. Then knees start to buckle, and I let myself slump against a nearby tree trunk and slide to the ground. The rough bark scrapes my back the whole way down.

I sit there in the dirt for what feels like a long time, until my breathing slows and my heart stops pounding so hard. I find myself swallowing my saliva again and again in an ineffective attempt to quench my burning thirst. I realize that at some point I'm going to need water.

Wait—it occurs to me that I haven't even stopped to check what items I picked up. In a stupid moment of hope, I think: _maybe I have a water bottle?_

I look down at myself.

I realize that my fists are tightly clenched, with the knuckles white and the hems of my sleeves caught in my palms. When I unclench them, a narrow space frees up between each sleeve and each wrist. Out of that gap in my left sleeve slides a paring knife—tiny and thin with a silver blade and a wooden handle, made more for cutting food than cutting people. I automatically flinch away from it as it falls, but my fears are unfounded; it just lands harmlessly on the dirt beside me.

How did I run all this way with a knife in my sleeve? I yank up said sleeve and find several small red scratches on the side of my forearm, where the blade must have been banging around. Now that the adrenaline is fading away, I'm starting to feel the mild but stinging pain. I lick my thumb and wipe away the existing bits of blood. _The cuts aren't deep,_ I tell myself. _They'll heal soon enough._

Well, I have a little knife. That's good, I guess. That's either one projectile or something to slit a throat with. An image of Clove flashes quickly through my mind and I shake my head to clear it.

Looking down at myself again, I see that there is a small bulge protruding from the side of each thigh. I must have taken a couple of items and plunged them deep into my pockets. Reaching into my left pocket, I find a crumpled-up black drawstring bag. Reaching into my right, I pull out a packet of dried fruit.

So this is what I almost died for: a knife, a bag, and a snack. I feel like I picked up more than this, but given that I somehow managed to carry these things all this way, I'm not complaining. I place my dried fruit carefully into my drawstring bag. After wrapping a few blades of grass around the blade of my paring knife—I know they won't do much, but it makes me feel better—I put that into the bag, too. I yank on the end of the string and the bag closes. I affix it securely to my belt.

All right, then. Next objective: find water. If night falls or other tributes come I can always find somewhere to hide, but if it's not near water I'll be dead in days. I stand and glance up at the sky. Judging by the sunlight streaming through the leaves, it's late afternoon, so I have some time before the light goes. If I just keep walking in a direction perpendicular to the one I came from, then there's probably a good chance I'll run across a riv—

BOOM.

The cannon startles a flock of birds out of the tree above me, and scares me enough to make me flatten myself against the trunk. Then I remember the bloodbath. It must be over. Ignoring the unpleasant swooping sensation in my stomach, I begin to count. _One._

BOOM._ Two. _BOOM._ Three._

By the time the forest falls silent, my tally is at eleven. That's almost half of us gone in the first day.

A pang of deep guilt shoots through me. One of those cannons was for Ryder. My volatile and confusing district partner, who gave me stress and tiny nods and ultimately, his life. I am alive right now because of him. Tears start to prick at my eyes, but I blink them away immediately. I can look sad about the loss of my district partner, especially given that he saved me, but I cannot show weakness.

I can only wonder who else might be gone. Cato… Clove… not likely. Peeta… I'm not sure. Blake… maybe.

Aiden…

No. No, I can't dwell on this right now. I have to find water or else there will be a cannon for me.

So, making sure the drawstring bag is tied tightly, I head off in a different direction than I came. I take it slow this time, walking—if I run into anyone, I will have to sprint again to get away, so I need to conserve my energy. I listen and watch carefully, hyper-aware of every noise and every shadow. And all the while I look for signs of a water source.

Time passes. I don't know how much. I just know my mouth is getting dry, my legs hurt, and I really want to sit down. But I can't—I have to keep moving. I have to find water.

As the sun starts to set, the air around me cools rapidly and I realize I have an even more pressing issue: finding shelter.

I switch tactics. I find the most nondescript tree I can, with relatively dark wood and a thick, knotty trunk. I try to climb it but I can't get high enough. Then I have a different idea.

Fluidly I yank out the band in my hair. Holding the band in my teeth, I pull my hair back as close to my head as I can. Then I take the band out of my teeth and wrap it tightly around my hair so that it forms a low, tight ponytail. Stuffing the hair down the back of my shirt, I pull the hood of my black jacket up over my head to cover the rest.

Then I try to recall the camouflage tactics I learned in training. I used mud and leaves there… if had water I could do something with mud, but as it is all I've got right now are fallen leaves and dirt. I walk around under the tree, picking up as many leaves as I can, and then sit at the base of the thick tree with my back pressed to the bark. I've situated myself between a couple of knots; if I'm lucky their presence will help people believe I'm just a bunch of weird lumps on the trunk, too.

I spread the leaves over the lower half of my body, hips to feet. I try to arrange the leaves in such a way that the resulting heap could be the product of a freak gust of wind, or an animal's nest, or something like that. Then, still sitting with my back against the tree, I grab a handful of dirt and scrub it over my face, neck, and hands. Then I do it two more times for good measure. My black jacket covers most of my torso, but if I don't make my pale skin blend in with the tree, I'll stick out like a sore thumb in the night that's coming.

It's the darkness I'm depending on here. Covered in soil and leaves as I sit against a knotted tree trunk, I won't fool anyone in the daytime. But at night, I'll have a chance.

Just as I finish my disguise, night falls. A minute later, I flinch at a sudden noise—the anthem, blaring throughout the arena. I crane my neck to see the Capitol seal shining brightly in the sky. Thank goodness I have a pretty clear view of it, because I can't move too much or my camouflaging will fall apart. When the seal fades into darkness, I take a deep breath and hold it, waiting.

Are any Careers dead? Nope, no such luck. The first face floating above me is the girl from District 3. Then a jolt of shock runs through me; it's the boy from District 4! The one who tried to kill me, the one who was fighting Ryder when I left!

A vast golden wave of hope floods through me, and I sit up a little, daring to breathe again, daring to think the impossible. Daring to imagine Ryder ducking the club the boy from 4 swung at him, and Clove throwing a knife at Ryder, but missing, and the knife catching the boy from 4 in the chest instead. Because maybe, just maybe…

But no. In the sky, the boy from 4 is immediately replaced by Ryder. And just like that, the hope is gone.

I can't fool myself now. I know what happened—that club smashed right into Ryder's face, and he fell, and he did not get up again. The only other person from home, then, is truly gone. My heart is empty and tears gather in my throat; I allow myself two seconds of visible grief before I force myself to look up at the sky again.

Girl from 6, boy from 6. Girl from 7, boy from 7. I hadn't really expected that. 7's the lumber district… I guess knowing how to swing an axe doesn't help you in the Games if you don't have one to use.

Boy from 8. That means the girl from 8, Kiara, is still alive. I remember her persona in the interviews—bubbly, sugary, kind of a ditz-but if she survived the bloodbath, maybe that was all an act.

Girl from 9, boy from 9. It's amazing how I can look at these faces and not really equate them to lives that have ended, futures that will never happen, families crying at home. Maybe it's because I didn't know them as well as I knew Ryder.

Then it's blonde hair, a thin face—Blake, there in the sky. _Oh. _I bite my lip. Then I steel myself, knowing that if Aiden is dead, it will be his face I see next. But it doesn't come. Blake's face just fades away into darkness.

Aiden is not dead. Aiden is not dead—he survived the bloodbath! A big smile breaks out on my face. Why does this feel like a victory?

But my grin quickly fades when I realize that the tributes from 11 and 12 are all alive. There's the tiny fairy girl, which surprises me. Her gigantic district partner, Thresh, which does not. And then everybody's new favorites, the (fake) star-crossed lovers from District 12. I sigh. These Games are going to be just as difficult as I thought. Well, maybe they'll all kill each other off—the Careers versus Districts 11 and 12. And then I won't have to.

The Capitol seal and music fade away and then it's just me in the darkness again.

Well, me and twelve other tributes… somewhere. They could be a quarter mile away for all I know. Not exactly the most comforting thought as I'm trying to fall asleep. The paranoia, paired with my running-on-empty stomach, the way I desperately swallow as if that will satiate my thirst, and the rough knots of the tree trunk poking into my body, will make it difficult to get a good rest.

Staying awake might not be a bad idea. I mean, I've seen previous Games. I know the Careers will be in a pack. They could be out hunting tributes this very minute. In fact, I'm surprised if they aren't. Pack hunting is actually okay for me, though; as a group, the Careers have a lesser chance of finding me all the way out here. If they split up, I'd be in more trouble because they'd cover more ground. But I've run very far, very fast, and they're all in one place. I'll be all right.

At least, that's what I tell myself. Deep down I know that if the Career pack does find me, I'm probably done for. I can do hand-to-hand if one person encounters me, and I can run away from maybe two or three, but five Career tributes all at once…? I don't know.

I wrap my arms around myself, careful not to rustle the leaves on my legs as I move. It's cold out here and I have to fight the temptation to let my teeth chatter. I rub my hands up and down my arms as quietly as I can. This isn't the best camp, but as my eyelids begin to droop I realize that the hunger, the thirst, and the sitting position don't matter. I'm tired enough that anything would be comfortable.

The only question is: do I trust myself to sleep?

I'm not a heavy sleeper, I reason, and I especially won't be right now. If the Careers come, I figure I'll hear them. But just in case, I silently open my bag and hold the little paring knife in my hand; I'll feel better if I sleep with a weapon at the ready. I close the bag, and close my eyes.

It's not a deep slumber. I drift in and out of consciousness for several hours, occasionally startled by a small animal or my own sensation of falling. But no one finds me, and it's a decent enough rest—until dawn.

That's when I hear the cannon.


	15. Chapter 14: I Can Do This

**A/N: Life happens, but like I keep saying, I won't abandon this story. No matter how much time passes between updates, I promise, I haven't forgotten. Thank you guys so much for continuing to stick with me. I really appreciate it, and I love reading your reviews!**

_Calm down, _I tell myself fiercely. _Calm. Down._

On the outside I'm absolutely motionless, but my heart is racing. Instinct screams at me to run, hide, do anything but what I'm doing, which is nothing. I fight it down, and stay still.

The sound of the cannon echoes in the early morning; it's mostly still dark, but streaks of pale rose are beginning to steal across the sky, and wisps of lavender clouds drift overhead. Silence falls, and I am left listening.

But that's all it is now. Silence.

I strain my ears. If the death had occurred anywhere near me, I would be able to hear something, wouldn't I? Another tribute's footsteps, or the Career pack celebrating… but I hear nothing.

Only when I am certain I'm not in danger do I let myself sink back against the tree and breathe out slowly. Now that the immediate threat has passed, I become aware of the aching hunger pains in my stomach, of the headache and dry throat induced by dehydration. I'm sorely tempted to take out my dried fruit and eat it. But I dig my fingernails into my palms to wake myself up, to remind myself I can't. I've got to save the food for when I really need it, not just when I want it.

Locating a water source has to be my first priority. I pull the relatively clean edges of my sleeves over my dirty hands and use the fabric to wipe the sleep from my eyes. I've survived the first night. Okay. Day two.

I check the thin cuts on my forearm (scabbed over), check that my supplies are still in the drawstring bag on my belt (they are), and check that nothing is around to hurt me (doesn't look like it). Then I stand up and redo my ponytail, tying it high so that it's off my neck. I don't care if my hair is bright red and out in the open. Even if I'll be operating in the shade, there's no point in trying to disguise myself if I'm going to be on the move in what's basically broad daylight. Better not to hinder myself trying to maintain my disguises. I brush the dirt off of my skin as well as I can.

Then I start walking.

It's a slow process; I'm still trying to conserve my energy due to both bodily weakness and the fact that I'll need to run if I encounter anyone. I pick my way through the forest, careful not to make any sound if I can help it.

Wait! There's a noise in the bushes!

Everything in me roars to life and I react reflexively; before I know it I'm already about twelve feet away. I glance back quickly to locate my pursuer—and immediately screech to a stop.

It's a rabbit.

And it's not even pursuing me. It just twitches its nose, dashes across the place where I just was, and disappears into an opposing bit of shrubbery.

If I had any energy to spare, I would smack myself in the face.

I glance at the shrubbery the rabbit vanished under. I hadn't noticed before—it's thick with berries. I start toward the food immediately, but stop myself. No matter how my stomach growls, I don't recognize the little yellow things, and I can't trust them. It is with great difficulty that I turn away and keep moving.

A few hours later, I am all but dragging myself onward. I'm not out of commission, not yet, but I'm hungry, thirsty and tired, and all I want to do is fall asleep. Somehow I keep going, thinking of potential sponsors judging me, thinking of my family crying. I have to show them I'm all right. And I have to show Panem I'm worth believing in.

Instinct tugs at me again, nothing big like this morning, just this little pull in my gut saying stop. Saying wait, listen. So even though my senses have dulled from exhaustion, I lift my head and I do.

At the very edge of my hearing, I catch the most beautiful sound I have ever heard—the sound of running water.

It takes such pure restraint not to sprint for it, to find the water wherever it is and plunge myself headlong into it. Instead I tread carefully, quietly, listening for the sound, moving through the trees toward its source.

And that's how I find the river.

I want to run to it, but running is noisy and could attract danger. So to show that even here on the riverbank my self-control has limitless reserves, to show that even in the throes of extreme thirst I know what I'm doing, I walk the last few downhill steps excruciatingly slowly.

It's a good thing I do, because the instant I reach the water intending to gulp as much of it down as I can, a silver parachute comes floating down to me. It lands right next to me and for a couple seconds I stare at it, bug-eyed.

I have _sponsors? _

It's only the second day, and I have _sponsors._

My face breaks into a real smile, which I quickly turn into one of those sly grins, and I raise my eyes to the sky to express my gratitude. I notice the dirt caked under my short fingernails as I open the container. I can't help getting excited. What could be inside? Food? Advice?

I pull up the lid, and my smile fades slightly.

Not food. Not advice. It's a little bottle of brown liquid.

I'm confused for a second or two until I remember something someone said in training, and in a flash I realize what this is.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice cracking and raw.

Iodine.

…

This is what hell is.

Hell is walking miles you can't count, hungry and tired and above all thirsty, but having to go at a snail's pace for your own safety. Then hell is finally finding water, but having to walk even more slowly toward it even though it's right there waiting for you. Hell is having to use your drawstring bag and a cupped hand to contain as much water as you can; hell is having to bite your lip and cover your face with your arm to keep your mouth away from the water in your palm. Hell is waiting half an hour for the damn stuff to purify. And hell is waiting longer and longer and longer.

Oh, but heaven.

Heaven is drinking as much of that water as you can hold.

…

A bottle would make things easier, but all things considered, I'm perfectly happy. Hunting may be out of the question because I can't make a fire, but there's plenty of greenery around the river, and I'm sure I can remember enough about gathering from training to get myself some food. Besides, for now I've downed enough water to fool my stomach into thinking it's full. I squeeze out my sopping-wet drawstring bag as much as possible, put my dried fruit and my knife back into it, and secure it all at my belt.

Hmm. Maybe it's because I'm no longer physically miserable, but here on the riverbank in the afternoon sun, I'm actually starting to feel safe.

Lying down on my stomach, I crawl under some thick bushes to conceal myself. Rubbing dirt on my skin and pulling my hood over my red hair, I close my eyes. It isn't nighttime yet, but I'll take whatever rest I can get. As always, I keep an ear out for potential predators, an action that is already becoming automatic.

I sleep.

After what seems like no time at all the Capitol anthem startles me awake, and I open my eyes. The arena is dark now. Parting the shrubbery above me with my hands, I manage to catch the seal, shining through a large gap in the treetops.

It takes me a second to remember that there was only one cannon today. There will be only one face in the sky. When that face appears, I let out a breath I don't remember holding.

It's Kiara, the ditzy girl from District 8.

Quietly replacing the leaves of the bush, I fold my hands on my stomach and try to list the remaining tributes in my head. Boy and girl from 1. Boy and girl from 2. Girl from 4… boy from 3? Boy and girl from 11. Boy and girl from 12.

Boy from 10…

I cover my face with my hands, glad that for a moment the cameras can't see me. I am surprised to find that said hands come away shaking.

Aiden is alive.

And for some reason it still feels like a victory.

…

The next day of the Games is by far the best I have had. When I wake, I feel remarkably rested, and the light shining through the leaves of my hiding place is the warm gold of midday. By some miracle, no one has found me. By some miracle, I'm breathing.

Before emerging from the shrubbery, I perform my ritual of listening very intently, and hear nothing. I crawl out from under the bush. Approaching the river, I splash some of the rushing water on my face, not bothering to purify it but careful not to let any of it get into my eyes or mouth.

Today, I decide that I love the river. I love that it is loud enough to cover the little noises I make, and I love that its water sustains life, and I love that I can walk in it to cover my tracks without getting swept away.

I walk in that river for a long time, stopping to rest and drink purified water when necessary—ultimately, my new first priority is finding food. But the only edible, accessible things I come across are berries. There are dark purple berries, and blood-red berries, and those annoying little yellow berries I saw before. I trust none of them.

As night settles in, my allegedly vast reserves of willpower hit a wall when I end up devouring my dried fruit. I try to tell myself to ration it, but the second the first bite of fruit meets my desperate stomach, I discover I've inhaled the rest of it too. I stare down at the empty packet, and then I let my head knock back against the solid trunk of the tree I'm sitting against.

For a moment I hate myself intensely, and then I let out a long sigh and resolve that I will, I _will_ find more food tomorrow. Tomorrow I will venture further out from the river, never straying too far, but going just far enough that hopefully there will be more out there to gather than just three different kinds of questionable berries. Then not only will I have my riverbank shelter and my riverbank water, but I'll also have a food source and very little to worry about.

_I can do this._

As I rub dirt into my skin, pull up my hood, and curl up to sleep underneath another cluster of thick shrubbery, I have the strangest feeling of… comfort? Capability? I don't know. Whatever it is, it's wonderful. It even helps me sleep sort of peacefully, since there were no deaths today.

_I can really do this._

At least, that's what I believe—until I jolt awake in the middle of the night, surrounded on all sides by searing, blistering heat.

The bushes are burning; everything is on fire.

Including me.


End file.
